InsaneJournal

See, the brilliant thing about Neville—well, there are actually a lot of brilliant things about Neville, aren't there? Else Harry wouldn't be so stupid-in-love with him. But one of the most brilliant things about Neville is that he can cook. Really bloody well. And that's something that Harry would never have expected, but when Harry comes home feeling a bit dented, Neville's first response is kedgeree or beans on toast or some of what's left over from Sunday's roast or stew.

And Harry's getting a bit plumper round the middle these days (though Neville's rounder and always will be) and though that fact bothers him a bit when he sees recent photographs or tries to squeeze into an old pair of jeans, there's an inherent comfort in Neville's instinctive feeding of Harry.

And maybe Harry's selfish—oh, he knows he is, he knows--but that thought is only ever a fleeting one, for he can't ever think much when they're on the sofa together after dinner and Harry's got a full belly and his head's in Neville's lap and Neville's scritching his fingers through Harry's hair.

Neville is comfort, and Neville is love, and Neville is safety, and Neville is home.

And Harry thinks that if Neville thinks those things about him even a fraction of the times he thinks them about Neville, then maybe—maybe—Harry's doing something right.