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“Ugh, what a long day,” Neville mumbles as he drags himself through the door of the flat. He half-heartedly tosses his briefcase on the coat rack, considers the bag thoughtfully when it drops off for a long second, flaps a hand at it. The parchments in there will survive. “I, on the other hand, will not,” he slurs, “if I don’t get horizontal immediately.”
He pauses in the middle of sluggishly taking off his outer robe. “Oh, yeah, should Floo Harry, let him know I’m off work.”
The robe slides off his arms to puddle at his feet. “That can survive, too,” Neville decides, stumbling over to the sofa. Thank Merlin the sofa is so near to the door. Neville honestly doesn’t know what he’d have done if he had had to go all the way to his bedroom.
Merlin’s balls, this sofa is so comfortable. Neville moans into the cushion as he sinks into it. Never has he appreciated this sofa more than this very moment. He’ll just lie here soaking in the wonderfulness of the sofa for a few moments, then Floo Call Harry.
The Floo chime is what breaks through first. Then it’s “Hullo?” and Neville realizes that someone’s Floo Calling him.
Jerking, Neville flails up from the sofa. Looking wildly about, he spots the fireplace, in which green flames are dancing. Harry’s head floats in the middle, a worried look on his face as he peers out.
“Neville?” he calls. “Hallooo…”
Oh, Merlin, Harry. “Harry!” Neville cries, leaping from the couch. “Hi!” He beams as he drops to the hearth in front of the fire.
Instantly Harry’s worried look vanishes. “Hey, Neville,” he says warmly. “Did you forget about tonight?”
“No, I.” Neville glances at the grandfather clock, bugs his eyes out in shock at the time. Two hours! “Oh, Merlin, Harry, I didn’t realize – I must have fallen asleep!”
He glances back at the couch. It had been awfully comfortable… He resolves to blast it into oblivion at the latest opportunity.
Harry’s grinning when Neville turns back to him. “I’m terribly sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I was going to Floo you…”
“S’all right,” Harry says. “You had a long day, it happens to everyone.”
The affection in his face is enough to warm Neville’s insides and make him flush. “Oh, d’you want to come through, or is it too late now?” Please don’t say it’s too late, please don’t say it’s too late…
“Well, I do still have the curry waiting to be eaten, so it’s probably a good idea,” Harry says dryly.
“Oh, good!” Neville releases a breath of relief. “C’mon over then.” He backs out of the hearth, watches as the green flames dance higher. Then Harry spins into the fireplace, staggers out into Neville’s waiting arms.
“Oop, hang on there,” Neville says, steadying Harry by the elbow.
Harry looks up through his askew spectacles and smiles crookedly, Neville’s favourite smile. “Thanks,” he says, reaching up a hand to straighten his spectacles. The hand drops down to squeeze at Neville’s forearm, stays there.
Smiling, Neville leans in for a quick kiss. “Did you have a good day at work?”
“Not bad, actually,” Harry answers, brightening. “You?”
“Ugh, I’d rather not think about it. Du Lac was being an idiot about flower breeding again,” Neville sighs.
Squeezing Neville’s forearm again, Harry drops his hand and starts around Neville. A bag swings from his other arm as he looks back over his shoulder. “You can complain about it while I dish out the curry, if you’d like.”
“All right,” Neville says, following.
They manoeuvre around that traitorous sofa and go through the leftmost of two doors behind it. The kitchen is blindingly white and cramped such that Neville and Harry have to shuffle carefully around each other if they want to get something. Neville wouldn’t have it any other way, for it gives him an excuse to be near Harry without being obvious about it.
Not that Harry doesn’t already know, anyway.
Neville lingers in the doorway as Harry fishes out two of Neville’s inexplicably many bowls and uncovers the curry. The aroma that wafts up from the container as Harry divides it amongst the bowls is marvellous, and Neville can’t resist stepping in closer.
“Smells good,” he says as he carefully lays hands on Harry’s hips. “What sort of curry is it?”
Today’s a positive. Harry tenses for a moment against Neville’s hands, and then relaxes. Neville beams when Harry even gives one of his hands a pat, adjusts the verdict upward from “positive” to “good.” Harry pushes up his spectacles and meets Neville’s grin with that crooked one of his own.
“Chicken masala,” he says, lidding the container again. “It shouldn’t be cold. I finished it just before I fire called you.”
Neville flushes at the look, strong eyebrow lifted over green eyes glittering behind square-rimmed spectacles, Harry sends his way. “I’m sorry!” he says, pouting a bit at Harry’s snigger. “And I dunno, if I were the one making it, it would have blown up and coated the walls by now.”
Harry laughs. It’s the rumbling sort of laugh that Neville likes for the incongruity of it – the way that he’s laughing under his breath than anything else. As large as life a figure like Harry is, you’d think his laugh would be a guffaw or something equally embarrassing. Neville thinks Harry’s real laugh fits him, fits how quiet Harry really is.
“Should I be letting you near the food when you say things like that?” Harry asks, peering at him. “Maybe you’ve ruined the curry just by standing next to it.”
“Merlin, I hope not!” Neville jerks back from both Harry and the stove, only to realize it was a joke when Harry laughs again. Mock-scowling, Neville points at Harry. “Not funny.”
“Oh, come on, it was a bit funny,” Harry says, grin spreading until teeth flash. Neville hates, just a little, how that grin makes his insides flutter and nearly – nearly – forget the injustice served unto him.
Fortunately Neville is able to rally. “Not even a little bit. You know how I’m still afraid to make potions, even though I’ve been out of Hogwarts for nearly six years.”
Harry’s grin softens at that. “Not your fault,” he says, reaching out to rub Neville’s neck in that way he knows Neville likes. “Reckon you never really stood a chance, what with first your Uncle Algie and then Snape both standing over you breathing down your neck.”
“No, that’s true,” Neville says with a sigh, leaning into Harry’s rub. Snape, terrifying in his own right, would probably roll in his grave to know that he was not the first one to intimidate Neville over the subject of Potions. Uncle Algie, an otherwise jovial if annoyingly persistent wizard (see: attempts to activate Neville’s magic), transfigured into a gremlin when it came to Neville’s failure to grasp Potions. Snape had just been an extension of Uncle Algie’s work, really.
Neville’s stomach rumbles then, causing Harry to snigger. “Harry,” Neville whines, rubbing at the stomach in question. “Don’t laugh at me.”
“I’m not!” Grinning, Harry glances mischievously at Neville out of the corner of his eye. “But I don’t blame you for being excited about it. My curry is kind of fantastic.”
Neville shakes his head at Harry’s posturing. “I think it’s brilliant that you can cook without magic, Harry,” he says truthfully, mouth watering as he catches the delicious smell of the curry again.
Harry doesn’t tense, exactly, but he hesitates for long enough that Neville notices. Just as Neville opens his mouth to ask if Harry’s all right, Harry says, “I can’t. Not really.”
He says this in that odd tone that Neville is starting to learn means Harry’s thinking about telling Neville something important. Neville swallows down his concern and waits, watching Harry turn and put heating charms on the curry, his fringe falling over his eyes. Neville wants to push it back so he can see the thoughts crossing behind Harry’s eyes, but he’s still learning where and where not he’s allowed to touch Harry, so he refrains.
Harry’s silent for long enough that Neville wonders if he should change the subject. Then: “I can’t cook, not really,” Harry says, not looking up from the curry, “but…Aunt Petunia, she…”
Ah. Neville doesn’t know a lot about Harry’s aunt and uncle, or his cousin Dudley, but he knows enough, told to him in fits, starts, and silences, that he’s glad Harry is away from there.
Harry’s still on that hesitant edge, teetering on whether to tell Neville the rest of it or not. Carefully, Neville lifts his hands from Harry’s hips and slides them around his waist instead, ready to step back if Harry reacts negatively.
But Harry doesn’t. Instead, after re-sheathing his wand, Harry leans back into Neville’s chest. Surprised, but happy, Neville risks tightening his embrace, gets a hum from Harry as his reward.
“Aunt Petunia didn’t like foreign foods,” Harry says, fixing his gaze on the wall behind the oven. “None of them did, really. Except for curry, if it was mild. Aunt Petunia refused to learn how to cook it, though, so she made me learn it.” Harry clears his throat. “They didn’t like me, but they never complained about the curry.”
Neville gets it. When he was small, he would do what he could to get approval from his formidable Gran and his uncles and aunt. It didn’t matter that what he could do was very little; whenever he did win a smile from his relatives, he treasured it like he treasured the wrappers he’d get from Mum each visit in hospital.
He also knows about keeping those moments hidden, hoarding them so no one sees how much they mean to you, how vulnerable they make you.
“Thanks for telling me, Harry,” Neville says softly, leaning his head against the back of Harry’s. “I know how…” How hard it is to talk about them. How precious they are. How much you feel like you’re giving pieces of yourself when you do talk about them.
Harry coughs. “Well,” he says, sounding embarrassed. Neville lifts his head to see that red is creeping up Harry’s neck. “I. I wanted to.”
His eyes, when he turns around to look up at Neville, are wide and earnest, and not a little apprehensive. “These aren’t…the Dursleys aren’t something I can…talk about with Ron and Hermione. They’ve got their families, they wouldn’t…” He gestures in frustration.
“They wouldn’t understand,” Neville finishes for Harry, nodding. “I’m the same way with my mum and dad, Harry. Aside from you, nearly no-one knows about me visiting them in hospital, or the way I still try to have conversations with them even though I know, I know they don’t know me or have any idea what I’m saying. It’s just…”
“They’re your parents, of course you still visit them.” Harry’s voice is so matter-of-fact that Neville can’t help the rush of love that swells up inside him. Something must show on his face; Harry ducks his head, a smile playing around his mouth. He’s not done yet, though, for his hands come up to fiddle at the hem of Neville’s sweater. Neville notes it, but doesn’t say anything, sure Harry doesn’t know he’s doing it.
Instead he rubs his fingers along Harry’s elbow, lightly at first, then more solidly when Harry doesn’t shrug him off.
“They’d want to know,” Harry says, low-voiced and terrible. He doesn’t meet Neville’s gaze. “Ron and Hermione. About the Dursleys. They mean well, but…”
“But they wouldn’t understand,” Neville repeats, finally taking Harry’s hands in his. “I know, Harry. It’s okay.”
Harry’s devouring his face, looking for reassurance. Neville gives it to him as best as he can, smiling encouragingly and waiting for as long as it takes for Harry to relax. He doesn’t really think Harry will believe him, not yet, because it’s hard to take words at face-value when they’ve been used against you in the past. Words need to be repeated to sink in past the morass of emotions deep within Harry’s chest, and Neville knows this will not be the last conversation they have about this.
The difference, Neville thinks as Harry’s face begins to clear, is that Neville is willing to give Harry those repetitions when he needs them.
“Thanks, Neville,” Harry says quietly, one corner of his mouth turning up.
“You’re always welcome, Harry,” Neville says equally quietly, warmth curling in his chest.