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1991
He was eleven when he saw him for the first time.
Neville wasn’t a very elegant eleven year old- it was a point of embarrassment for the Longbottom bloodline that the last surviving heir was a round faced spaz. His dad was the only child of an only child, which his great aunt seemed to think that made Neville destined for greatness. After he had waited a whole seven years (the longest of any of his family) to magically present, enduring countless barely hidden stage whispers of well we were bound to get a squib sometime and surprise attacks to scare a spell out of him, he was beginning to have his doubts.
(His grandmother would never let him say that however. Longbottoms were a lot of things but they weren’t quitters. You’re going to graduate that school if it kills you , she would always say. The phrasing seemed a little unfortunate in hindsight.)
He stumbled more than he walked, tripping over any suggestion of unevenness in the cement and knocking into more people than he could ever introduce himself to. Which is why he hardly notice the two boys whose cabin he had interrupted, eyes only glancing to their faces briefly before he sent them straight back to his feet. They were tear filled anyway- he was barely thirty minutes into his first train ride and Trevor had already ran away from him, and he had already bothered the rather intense girl who had shared his cabin about it- easy to say it wasn’t going very well.
“Sorry, have you seen a toad at all?” he could see the movement of their shaking heads in the corner of his now streaming eyes, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting away from me!”
One of the boys spoke up kindly, “He’ll turn up.”
Neville finally looked at the boy who spoke, taking his appearance in for the first time. He was scrawny, the knobs of his knees making the bend of his jeans a very precise angle, with brown skin and a mess of black hair that tickled the top of the seat. But mostly apparent were his curiosity filled, giant bright green eyes that stared back at Neville with a kind sympathy.
He looked utterly in awe of everything around him, the kind of boy his grandmother would shuffle the hair of and call a very nice boy .
“Yes,” Neville said, hardly hiding the misery in his voice, “well, if you see him…”
--
It wasn’t until they’d all been sorted that he and the rest of their class realized who that nice boy from the train was. No Gryffindor first year could go down the halls without hearing the whispers can you believe? He was raised by muggles this whole time or I wonder if he remembers any of it and it only got worse as the year went on. Did you hear he made Seeker? His dad was a Chaser, maybe its fate I see he’s hanging with the youngest Weasley, maybe they’ll be the new Fred and George… Can you believe he lost all those points for us? Useless git…
Seamus Finnigan- who had sometime between January and February decided that he was Neville’s new friend- would whine all the time, “What I wouldn’t give to have half as many people talk about me as Harry Potter. What a lucky bloke.”
He didn’t know if he was missing something but he didn’t think Harry Potter was very lucky. He couldn’t imagine having everyone talking about him- even worse, talking about his parent. He’d be an utter wreck all the time- but Harry seemed like he as taking it well. A little alouf, maybe overwhelmed all the time, but seemed to take all the whispers in stride. Otherwise, he was still always kind to Neville, even though he spent most of his time with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger- he never laughed at him the rest of their class., never made him feel like a completely bumbling idiot
Maybe that’s why when he started to feel a strange swooping in his stomach whenever he saw Harry. Why his face flushed so hotly whenever Harry smiled at him in the hallway, or why his hands spazzed whenever their fingers accidentally touched when Harry passed his potion ingredients. Or why his heart began to beat so fast when Harry stood up to Draco for him.
Because he was such a nice boy.
--
(It wasn’t until 1995 when he and Luna- who he had sometime between September and October decided was to be his best friend- were talking that he realized what it was. They were in the greenhouse, Luna tying the Jurilian Tiger Vines into braids as they happily sprouting blooms along the patterns her fingers wove. The plants like Luna a lot, so he trusted her to listen to them if she ever went too far, which let him focus on pruning the Hungarian bushes with the particularly bad tempers.
“Harry’s rather brave, isn’t he?” Luna mused, fishtailing at an impressive speed.
Neville shrugged, because that seemed the best way to illustrate how much of an understatement that was.
“He’s said that you’d improved quite a lot you know. I heard him telling Hermione Granger that your expellimarious was the most precise of any of us now. I suppose he thinks you’re rather brilliant.”
His hands slipped, nearly cutting a fresh bud of the branch, which earned his a high pitched scream from the plant. He quickly stroked the spot to nullify the shrub, feeling his neck get hot and mouth go quite dry, “I- well I hardly think that could be true, I’m…. well he’s Harry Potter and I’m….”
Well, he didn’t know what he was exactly, but he knew he wasn’t the savior of the wizarding world, or the best seeker in the history of Hogwarts, or a brave leader, or the most gorgeous boy in their class-
“Is he the most gorgeous boy in your class? I hadn’t noticed… did you have to vote on that?”
He flushed even harder realizing he had said all that aloud- Luna’s presence had the bad habit of making him feel a little too comfortable, “Well… no but it’s rather obvious?”
Because it rather seemed like it was. Harry was the most gorgeous- he had seemed to skip that awkward in between growth Neville was caught it. Though he was still quite short, his face had slimmed his baby fat and the years of Oliver Wood sanctioned Quidditch practice had begun to affect his lanky frame, shaping it into a more lean cut. His hair was wild and thoughtless and his eyes narrowed in deep consideration. It was rather… dreamy.
Luna paused in hr braiding, staring off in the middle distance like she was working that over in her mind. After consideration, she turned to him and simply said, “No.”
“Oh.”
“Well, depending on what Wurmsports you have, in your visual cortex you may see the world very differently from the next person, you know. It must be just your Wurmsports- they must not be the same as mine. You just have the same as Cho Chang.”
“I do?” he asked, a little lost but distinctly embarrassed.
“Yes,” she said loftily, going back to braiding the vines, “I hear her whisper about it with Marietta Edgecomb when they think I’m not there. Of course, she has quite the crush on him, so that may have something to do with it,”
One of the great many things about Luna is that she didn’t jump as the pruning shears he was white knuckle gripping suddenly clattered onto the floor.)
***
2006
He was twenty-six when he saw him again.
They had kept in touch after the war, as they all had. It’s not often you go into experiences like that and escape without bonding together; but as Ron and Hermione settled down and began their family, and Ginny’s schedule got busier and busier, Harry found himself particularly vigilant in his correspondence with Neville. There was something easy between them, where they could understand a feeling in each other Harry didn’t have a word for but they didn’t have to talk about it always. Neville’s herbology was endlessly interesting, and he always asked about Harry’s own work. It had gone on like that until quietly, without much notice, his letters became the highlight of Harry’s week.
Life as a professor could get rather redundant, drowning Harry in his daily routine. In much a contrast to his own schooldays, the most excitement he’d found outside of his classroom was the occasional unlucky student he’d catch out of bed after curfew. That’s not to say he didn’t absolutely love it ( afterall, he had had enough excitement in his youth, hadn’t he?) but he’d be lying if he said Neville’s vibrant descriptions of the boglands in Ireland or the painted deserts of America, scattered with wives’ tales of the odd characters who Neville’d be too nice to turn away didn’t make his heart ache with a yearning for adventure.
And for something else, he didn’t quite have a word for.
--
McGonagall and he had tea just the two of them, every month. She always said it was time for her to ensure he wasn’t completely letting his life fall into shambles, but Harry didn’t ever listen to that. He knew her too well to ever believe that. The teas got closer together as the year went on, and got more casual around the end of the year. His favorites were those in the warm afternoon of the early summer, where even Minerva was beginning to get tired of the school year and allowed herself to indulge in gossip.
One such afternoon, Harry was letting silence sit between them as Minerva went over the end of the year paperwork and he lost himself in thinking about the West Virginian opodiphthera ajuga reptans Neville had been raving about in his last letter, when Minerva broke the stillness.
“Pomona is retiring this year,” she said casually.
His ears perked up at that. Pomona had been bemoaning about the possibility of her retirement for years now, wanting to spend more time with her own research, but hadn’t been able to pull herself away. Harry completely understood- the kids got your heart pretty easily and it becomes impossible to tear yourself away, “ Really? She’s decided to stop teasing us and pull the trigger?”
Minerva smiled, despite the fact Harry was certain the colloquialism flew over her head, “The Ministry approved her grant for further research on botanical alternatives to healing spells.”
“Took ‘em long enough. I’ve been over her abstract a hundred times. It’s brilliant.” she hummed in agreement and they sat quiet again for a moment, “Do you have any candidates for her replacement?”
“A few,” she said evenly, “A couple of older applicants who’ve been asking after her position for a while. Durmstrang’s old Herbology professor, coming out of retirement…”
He nodded, feeling an odd empty, disappointment rising in his chest.
“Oh, and…” she trailed off purposefully.
“And?”
She slide a slightly water warped piece of parchment, rolled as though it was around an owl for a long trip. It was an application, filled in neat black writing Neville August Longbottom for position of Herbology professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… Faintly, he realized his lip had began to bleed from where he was biting it to keep the smile from completely taking over his face.
When he looked up, Minerva’s eyes sparkled knowing and oh so annoyingly. However, he found it was very hard to focus on how much he hated her in that moment.
--
Neville would be arriving at the school two weeks before term to adjust his room at and Harry found himself a bit immaturely counting down the days. While working out the math the night before his arrival, Harry realized they hadn’t seen each other in the flesh since Ron and Hermione’s wedding. Neville had left for Australia the next day. Hermione had convinced them all to wear Muggle formal wear and Neville had been the only one not to show up in something straight out of 1974. Harry had a great picture of the six of them, laughing about something, Neville’s head thrown carelessly back as Harry wiped away joyous tears.
Since the summer had granted them a day of dry, breezy weather and Minerva kicked him out of her office for jumping around like a scared cat , Harry found waiting in the back patio of the staff room. He had heard from Peeves that little itty bitty Schlongbottom was already back in the castle and that he had better powder his nose , which he pointedly ignored. He didn’t let himself get truly excited until her heard staff door open and a soft, familiar, “Harry?| from the entrance. He shot up like a snitch and ran back inside, hearing Peeves snickered behind him.
With in half a second, Harry felt his enthusiasm freeze into shock, his feet stumbling as he rounded the corner. Because never once while reading their letters had he considered Neville may look any different from the slightly scarred, cherub faced twenty-year-old he’d last seen.
But he did. Good god how he did.
Because Neville had grown into his body in the six years they hadn’t seen each other- still tall and thick, but with a sturdy strength in his shoulders and wonderfully wide arms, and athletic thighs. His face was older, smiling still, but more freckled and blonde hair flowing longer than it had ever been. Most of all his eyes were cleared, the blue almost painfully kind and understanding, now lit with joy as the met Harry’s, who suddenly found that the only thought he could possibly conjure was holy shit, Neville got hot.
Neville on the other hand, beamed and picked Harry up by the waist, spinning around with an ease that was worrying , “I’ve missed you!’
Oh, this was going to be a problem .
--
(“I don’t get it,” Ron’s fiery head said from his place in Harry’s fireplace, “What’s the issue? That Neville got hot? Because that seems like the opposite of a problem…”
“The problem isn’t that he’s hot! The problem is that he’s funny and smart and hot and here! ”
Ron was quiet for a moment, “Yeah, so you’re flooing for snogging tips or...?”
“You are no help.”)
--
The hardest part of living in constant exposure to the most wonderful man to ever exist is the fact that while Harry was utterly entranced by strong fingers patting soil down with a brilliant deftness, Neville would be utterly oblivious to his own glory, as his deep calm tones carried more stories of his travels and his gracious laughs sounded at even the softest of Harry’s jokes. Which meant there was no end in sight because Neville hadn’t even realized he was doing it at all, and the point was- it’s a vicious cycle.
Because writing only did Neville so much justice, since Harry’s memory seemed to be doing him a favor in forgetting how thoughtful, and kind Neville was; targeting lesson plans at to pique the interests of the quietest students, and having a cold stone no bullying policy in his greenhouse. Or how brave he was, as he nonchalantly regaled his treks across unknown worlds covered in impenetrable forests and bone dry, cracking desserts that hung like stiff towels over cliffs like it was a simple walk in the park.
Because the worst part was that Harry couldn’t honestly say in good conscious anymore that he didn’t know the word for that feeling they shared. Because it was on the tip of his tongue every time he so much heard Neville’s name, nearly impossible to suppress when he saw his smile or heard his laugh.
And Harry hated being a cliche.
***
They were twenty-seven before they finally saw the other one seeing them.