InsaneJournal

 Neville had never actually met Ron's eldest brother; he had only heard the stories that Ron so loved to tell. And, as Bill seemed exceedingly fond of having adventures and then writing to Ron about them, there was never a dearth of stories to tell.

Which was all right, really, because not only were Bill's stories enthralling, but Bill also had an engaging manner of writing and a wicked sense of humour, and so his letters, which Ron would always read out loud, never failed to entertain.

(And, all right, it was true—from the photographs Neville had seen of Bill, the man was gorgeous, though Neville wasn't about to mention that to Ron. No matter that the two of them shared a flat and, consequently, nearly everything else, this was one matter Neville would rather, for the moment, at least, keep private.)

It wasn't as though Neville fancied Bill, exactly. It was just that it was a bit of a nice feeling to have someone to focus on, particularly when there was no pressure, as said person was, essentially, unattainable. And it didn't hurt that said (or, well, would it be unsaid, after all?) person reminded Neville of a certain ex-girlfriend of his after whom he still occasionally pined.

But that was beside the point.

The point, after all, was that Bill was eventually going to visit, as he kept hinting at such an occasion in his letters, stronger and stronger, and Neville felt a frisson of—what, exactly? He was never certain. Not fear, no, but not excitement, not purely, anyhow. Something just south of trepidation and just north of thrill. Neville was an unemployed wannabe Herbologist with a sunburn on the back of his neck, living in a too-small flat with an old schoolmate, and Bill was an adventuring cursebreaker with a quarter-Veela ex-wife.

Something didn't quite add up. 

But when Bill finally arrived and Neville's hand was clasped in greeting in a larger, stronger, browner one, it didn't feel entirely wrong.