Entry tags:

character: neville, character: ron, genre: slash, pairing: neville/ron, rating: nc-17

Okay Is A Relative Concept (Neville/Ron, NC-17) (Part 2 of 2)
Title: Okay Is A Relative Concept (Part 2 of 2)
Pairing: Neville/Ron
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 19,025
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Not mine. JKR's.
Summary: Neville has an unexpected encounter with an old schoolmate and gains far more than he ever could have hoped for.
Notes: Written for coffee_n_cocoa for Valensmut 2007. This is still one of my most favorite things I have ever written, despite its many flaws, and since I've been thinking about Valensmut lately, I thought it was a good time to move this one over here to IJ.



Neville tossed the letter onto the kitchen table and dressed (reluctantly leaving the comforting embrace of the dressing gown) and made a cup of tea before reading it.

Longbottom,

Sod Brazil. Have decided European crop okay for experimental use.

Where the bloody hell were you last night? Tried to firecall.

D.M.

Neville smiled a little to himself. If Malfoy had any idea…

He picked up a quill and made a couple of false starts before he was satisfied with his reply.

Malfoy,

No. We need to go through the right channels, be patient, and wait for the good Brazilian stuff to come through. Be calm.

Why are you working on a Saturday?

N.L.

Malfoy's reply came by way of firecall. Neville was in the bedroom, debating whether he should take Ron's dressing gown back straightaway or owl first, when he heard an insistent voice in his living room.

"I know you're there, Longbottom!"

Neville jumped.

He had regained his composure by the time he was kneeling in front of the fireplace. Too late, he realised he was still clutching Ron's dressing gown, and he hastily shoved it behind his back.

"What's up, Malfoy?" he asked, a little too casually.

"Tell me you didn’t go back to the restaurant."

"Um—"

"Tell me you didn't spend the night with Weasley. Just tell me that, first."

"That's none of your business, Malfoy," scowled Neville, and Malfoy smirked, then rolled his eyes.

"I should have known," he moaned. "God, Longbottom, have you got any self-respect at all?"

Neville glared and clutched even more tightly at Ron's dressing gown. "What do you want?"

"I want you to keep your mind on your work, that's what I want. Some fucking Ministry liaison you turn out to be, bedding a waiter not five minutes after you're back in the country."

Neville gritted his teeth. "What I do on my own time is none of your business."

Malfoy didn't have an immediate answer for that. "Well, just—just don't let this affair affect your work, Longbottom," he finally snapped, as if he were Neville's supervisor instead of his equal.

"I'll ask once more, Malfoy, and then I'll turn off the fire. What do you want?"

"The Hungarian Tentaculas."

"No."

"You don't seem to understand, Longbottom. This potion's nearly ready. I thought we'd have something by now. You were gone for long enough. I can't wait for some sodding deal with Argentina—"

"Brazil."

"Fine, Brazil, to maybe-or-maybe-not go through. This is experimental stuff, Longbottom, and if it works, then we can wait for—"

"You're experimenting on innocent people!" spat Neville, his hands in fists. "You can't just use third-rate plants and expect everything to be all right! You could hurt someone!" Neville was breathing hard, and he knew he must have gone all red, but he didn't care. Malfoy had to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Relax, Longbottom. Nothing's going to happen," drawled Malfoy. "It's not as if they c—nothing's going to happen," he finished hastily.

"Not as if what?" cried Neville, his hands still in fists. "What are you doing?"

"It's been approved, hasn’t it?" asked Malfoy, all amusement gone from his voice. "So shut up and do your job." He set his mouth into a cold, thin line.

Neville could only stare, speechless with rage. You bastard, he wanted to say, you utter bastard, you have no idea what it's like—

But instead he stepped back from the fireplace and ended the call.

Malfoy had no idea what it was like, no idea what he could be doing. Neville had had enough of the Exploratory Potions Department after they'd nearly killed his mother a year prior. She was worse now then she had been before they experimented on her, her hair patchy, her eyes lifeless, her breathing shallow. She never left her bed anymore, and Neville's collection of gum wrappers had stopped growing.

His father had seemed to grow a bit better, though, oddly, in the days after Neville's mother became bedridden, and he would sit on the edge of her mattress and hold the hem of her robe, worrying it between his fingers.

But he never looked at her. He only stared at a circle on the wall where a clock might once have hung, the paint there darker than the surrounding colour.

Neville flung himself down onto the sofa and forced himself to breathe normally. In. Out. And no, he wasn't going to cry. In. Out. Neville brought the piece of cloth he was holding up to his face to wipe his nose, and smelled Ron, suddenly.

The unexpected comfort filled his senses and forced out the tears Neville had been trying so desperately to hold back.

And when he was done crying, Neville crawled inside Ron's dressing gown and slept.

"What did you dream about?" asked Ron, later, after Neville had recounted the tale to him, leaving out the part where he cried.

"Nothing," replied Neville, and it was true.

He and Ron sat in silence for a moment, Ron's neatly folded dressing gown on the table between them.

"You didn't have to bring it back right away," Ron said then. "You could have kept it. If you wanted to."

"Well," said Neville slowly, "This way…I can wear it the next time."

He wasn't looking at Ron and so didn't see the sudden movement, and he jumped when Ron's hand hit the wooden table with a resounding bang.

"Nev, what do you say we skip all this?

"What?"

"Skip it. This. The—courtship stuff."

"I don't know what you—"

"I love you." Ron looked right at him with those intense blue eyes. He reached across the table as if he were going to take Neville's hand, but ended up fiddling with a frayed part on his dressing gown instead. "I love you," he continued, softer, "And if you don't love me, that's okay, because you've had a lot less time to think about it than I have. And you don't have to say anything, okay? Just—let me say that."

And Neville didn't say anything.

Because he couldn't.

He choked when he tried.

"Do you know," he managed finally, "No one's told me that since my gran died."

Ron regarded him for a long moment, then stood. "Wait here, Nev. Please? Will you?" He threw on his cloak and laced his trainers and headed for the door.

"Okay," said Neville, a little dazed.

When Ron had gone, Neville buried his face in his arms on the table and closed his eyes. The past twenty-four hours had nearly wiped him out. His nap earlier in the day had helped, but he needed a few minutes to gather himself.

Ron was gone for quite a while, during which time the phrase Ron loves me cycled through Neville's consciousness approximately seventeen thousand times.

"You're still here," said Ron, when he entered the flat. He sounded half-relieved, half-surprised.

Neville nodded. He'd moved onto the sofa and was sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped around them.

"Have you got anything to do tonight?" asked Ron, hanging up his cloak. A piece of paper fluttered underneath the table and he bent to retrieve it, setting a brown paper bag on the table.

Neville shook his head.

"Good, because I've just owled work and told them I won't be in," said Ron from the floor.

"What did you tell them?"

Ron stood, brushing the knees of his jeans. "Family thing. There're enough of us that they'll believe that. Hungry?" Ron indicated the bag he'd brought, which was giving off a rather inviting aroma.

And Neville realised he was. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, and now the sun was gone, the moon rising to take its place.

"Yeah," he said gratefully, and Ron dug out plastic forks and Chinese takeaway and Summoned a couple of beers from the icebox, and they feasted there on the sofa, each tucked comfortably into a corner.

"I was thinking about what—um, about what you said earlier," said Neville, breaking the silence that had settled around them.

"Mmm. No," said Ron, pointing his fork at Neville. "Let's not talk about that right now."

"Why not?"

"Because you've only been thinking about it just now. I've had—well, a long time. So you don't have to say anything."

"What if I want to?"

"Well," said Ron thoughtfully, setting down his carton of takeaway, "I suppose…that'd depend on what you wanted to say."

Neville put his carton down, too, and jabbed the fork into it.

"I really, really like you," he said, and he moved to Ron's corner of the sofa and put his hand on Ron's knee. "So, um."

He leaned in after a moment's hesitation and he kissed Ron. Ron tasted like onions and soy sauce and beer, but Neville didn't mind.

Ron smiled into the kiss, and Neville smiled too until they were just two smiles pressed against one another, and they both started to laugh. Ron pulled him into a hug.

"I really, really like you, too," Ron said against Neville's shoulder, "So, are we skipping it?"

"Yeah," said Neville, "I think we are." He turned and settled against Ron's chest and Ron slung an arm around him.

"This is really weird, you know," Neville said after a moment, "Is it supposed to happen like this?"

"I don't think so," said Ron, putting his other arm around Neville. "I think we just got lucky."

Neville traced the silvery line of one of Ron's scars up to his elbow, then traced another one down to Ron's wrist.

"This is really okay?" Ron murmured as Neville began to trace a pattern in the freckles on the back of Ron's hand.

"Stop asking me that," said Neville. "I wouldn't be here if it wasn't."

Ron laughed a little at that, and Neville tipped his head back so he could see Ron's face.

"I wouldn't kiss you if it wasn't okay," he continued, "I wouldn't let you kiss me if it wasn't okay. I wouldn't—"

"You wouldn't go in the bedroom and shag me senseless if it wasn't okay," Ron finished for him.

"…That, too," agreed Neville, and he arched up, and Ron bent down, and when they had fumbled around enough on the couch, they managed to move to the bedroom, where the moon shone brightly in the window and where they both fumbled some more.

Neville tripped getting out of his jeans and Ron smacked Neville in the eye when Neville hit what was apparently a ticklish spot whilst taking off Ron's T-shirt, and they laughed and fell onto the bed and laughed some more.

"You'd think," said Neville, embracing Ron, still laughing, "That it'd be a lot easier the second time around."

"Nah," said Ron, running his hand down Neville's spine, making Neville shudder deliciously, "The first time, we had beginner's luck on our side. Now we're on our own."

But being on their own seemed like it might be okay, because it meant that they'd forgotten to turn out the light, and so Neville got to watch Ron's freckled body as Ron walked naked across the room to hit the switch, and it meant that Ron found a spot on Neville's neck purely by accident that caused Neville to make an incredibly embarrassing squeaking sound.

Unfortunately, it also meant that they both had to go on a wand hunt again when the time came for wands.

When Neville stuck his hand into Ron's jeans pocket, he came up with a wand and a knut and a crumpled paper receipt.

"I found it!" Neville cried, but a word on the receipt caught his eye, and he paused.

"Good," said Ron, bouncing onto the bed, "Come here, then."

"Who'd you owl internationally?" asked Neville, smoothing out the receipt and placing it on the nightstand and crawling into bed.

"Hmm? Oh—oh, the receipt—yeah, just my brother. When I owled work, I owled him, too. He's in Romania. Come here, Nev." Ron folded Neville in his arms, and they kissed for a while, sitting up, Neville practically in Ron's lap.

"Fuck me now, Nev," whispered Ron, and his words sent an ice-hot shiver through Neville. Ron lay back on the bed. "You remember the spells?"

"Show me again," Neville said. He leaned over Ron, a hand on either side of Ron's shoulders, a knee on either side of Ron's hips, and he bent so their faces nearly touched.

"Fuck," exhaled Ron, "Fuck, yes," and he twined his fingers around Neville's on his wand, and they spoke the spells together, and Ron let out a pleased little hiss after each one.

"Fingers now?" asked Neville, and Ron nodded and clenched his jaw and slammed his head against the pillow as Neville breached him once, twice, and Neville paused then, two fingers stroking Ron from within, to bend and kiss Ron's jutting collarbone.

And when something inside Neville told him to bite, he did, lightly, his teeth barely grazing the skin. Ron swore and bucked up against Neville and whined and begged him to do it again.

"Yeah?" whispered Neville, and he withdrew his fingers and leaned further forward and bit Ron again, a little harder this time, just on the same spot.

"Nev, fuck, do it again, want you in me, in, now, and do it again," babbled Ron, coherency apparently abandoned at the simple scrape of teeth against sensitive skin.

Neville thought he might never get used to how amazing it felt to be inside Ron, not if they did this a thousand times, not if they did it every day until they couldn't anymore. His hand sure as hell never felt so good, and with girls there were so many other things that Neville had to remind himself to remember to do that he could never just concentrate on sliding, pushing, pressing, which was all Ron cared about besides—

"Nev, bite—please—"

—sliding, pushing, pressing, biting, reducing Ron to a babbling mess, then coming, pulsing inside Ron, slipping out, collapsing upon him—

—realising—

"Did you—?" panted Neville against Ron's damp shoulder.

"Bite," was the strangled reply, and so Neville did, again at Ron's collarbone, hard enough that he was afraid he'd bruise Ron, but that was apparently all Ron needed, and he gave a little cry and came, biting his lip, all over Neville's skin and his own.

Neville slid off Ron and stroked the place he'd bitten. He could see it already swelling to redness in the moonlight.

"Sorry," he whispered.

"No, god no," moaned Ron, his eyes closed, one hand still curled around his softening cock, "Never, ever sorry for that. For anything."

Neville nodded, though he knew Ron didn't see him, and he settled down beside Ron, lying on his stomach.

"…You going to sleep?" asked Ron after a moment.

"No," said Neville, propping himself up on his elbows, "I'm wide awake."

He took up a piece of cloth from the bedside table—a handkerchief, he saw, clumsily embroidered with Ron's initials, probably by Ginny—and cleaned himself with it. A shadow swooped past the window and Neville looked up. It had been about the size of an owl. Not that he was expecting one—maybe Ron was—but there was no tapping at the window, and Neville settled back down.

"Are you sleeping?" he asked Ron, who was sprawled across the bed, his arms flung wide, his come- and freckle-spattered belly white-white in the moonlight.

"Mmm? No," replied Ron, rubbing his hand over his face, "I'm…I'm wide awake, too." He stifled a yawn and rolled over.

"…Okay, I lied. I'm absolutely falling asleep. Wake me up, Nev; it's early yet."

"Okay," said Neville, searching for his pants, "How?"

"Mmm. Dunno." Ron groped blindly on the bed, and Neville pushed Ron's wand to within reach of his grasp. Ron thanked him with a grunt, then cleaned himself.

"Wake up, wake up," chanted Neville. He found his pants half-under the bed, pulled them on, and flipped the light switch.

"Fuck!" cried Ron, "Okay, I am definitely awake now." He smiled and knelt on the bed. "Throw me something to wear, won't you?"

"I dunno," mused Neville, "I think I like you like that." He felt his face begin to burn the moment the words came out of his mouth, the blush creeping from his neck to his ears. He'd spoken without thinking, without going over anything in his head first, without letting worry about the consequences of his words get in the way.

He was starting to do that a lot lately.

And the consequences with Ron, he was learning, were rarely what he expected and were generally worth chancing. Ron waggled his hips lewdly, shaking his penis back and forth, a stupid, wide grin plastered on his face.

And Neville blushed even redder.

Not that he minded.

He found some clean pants in a drawer and lobbed them at Ron, who was still doing his obscene dance on the bed. Ron pulled them on, jumped down, and grabbed his T-shirt from the floor, then paused, and shoved it at Neville.

"Wear it?" he asked simply.

The shirt was ancient and faded and soft, and positively saturated with Ron's oddly intoxicating scent. Though it was a little tight across his shoulders and his belly, Neville didn't mind a bit. He tugged it over his head without hesitation, thinking he could easily get very used to this arrangement.

A loud crash from the living room caused both Neville and Ron to jerk their heads around, then Ron dashed off to see what had happened.

And after he brought the neck of Ron's T-shirt to his nose and inhaled deeply once, so did Neville.

The window above the sofa was cracked open wide, and a chilly blast of winter air swept the room. On the coffee table, surrounded by shattered glass, was an owl. It wasn't moving. The letter it had held in its beak lay on the floor, crumpled from the impact.

"Shit," Ron was saying, "Shit, shit, Nev, what do we do?"

"I, um—" Neville was frozen for a moment, then moved quickly to the table.

He touched a light finger to the bird's breast, hoping, holding his breath.

And he felt a heartbeat.

Neville exhaled and his shoulders sagged in relief.

"He's alive," Neville declared, "I think he's just stunned."

"Good, oh, god. I dunno what I'd do if he—um—I just didn't fancy a great bloody dead bird on my coffee table, is all," said Ron, a casual look pasted over his scared-white face.

Neville smiled and pretended to believe him. He cast Reparo on the broken window through which the bird had entered, then the two men settled onto the sofa to keep watch over the owl until it came to.

"Oh—the letter," Neville said after a moment, and Ron reached to retrieve it from the floor.

"For you," he said, poking it at Neville.

"You sure?"

"Course I'm sure, it says your name, doesn't it?"

"I thought—your brother—"

"Nev, it's for you!" Ron tossed the envelope into Neville's lap. "Besides, it takes a day at least to get an owl to Romania, and then Charlie still—" Ron cut himself off, running a hand through his hair so that it stood wildly on end. "Just open it," he said, and he got up and went into the bedroom, presumably in search of clothing.

But Neville groaned when he recognised the overly formal penmanship on the envelope.

"Malfoy," he muttered. He tossed the envelope onto the coffee table. "No, I don't think I will read it. This night's too nice to ruin. Sorry, owl."

But the pathetic sight of the owl, lying unconscious on the table, caused Neville to heave a sigh and pick the letter up again.

"After all," he said, "You did sort of go through a lot to get this to me. And it must be hell being Malfoy's owl. I think I might try a suicide mission, too." He broke the envelope's seal with his thumb. Inside was another of Malfoy's self-important missives, terse and confident.

Longbottom,

If this reaches you at Weasley's, then let me just say this:

You are unbelievable, and I truly hope I never have to witness this relationship going public. I'm getting ill just thinking about it.

Patients can't be hurt—get Hungarian plants.

D.M.

P.S. The owl's from the hospital; don't reply by him tonight. He's supposed to be off the clock. As am I.

"You poor thing," Neville said, stroking the owl's breast feathers. "You're supposed to be with your family." The owl rustled a bit under Neville's touch.

"You should have been a Healer," came Ron's voice, softly, from the bedroom doorway. He'd thrown on an enormous old jumper and another two mismatched socks, and he might have looked ridiculous had he not sounded so reverent.

"No," said Neville, "Definitely not." He stroked the owl's head, smoothing its rumpled crest, and shortly its eyes blinked open, and it righted itself quickly and hopped away from Neville's hand.

"Heyyy," said Ron appreciatively. Neville said nothing, just opened the window, and the owl did a couple of laps around the room, then swooped out, much more quietly than it had come in.

"That was cool," said Ron after the owl had gone.

"I didn't do anything," said Neville, closing the window.

"Well…yeah, you did."

"It—the owl was fine; it would have woken sooner or later."

Ron sat beside him on the couch and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. "It was cool, anyway, okay?"

"Um—thanks." Neville ducked his head and smiled.

Ron smiled back, then bent and rummaged under the coffee table for a moment, coming up with a carved wooden box.

"Chess?" he asked.

Neville had never really been any good at chess—strategy wasn't really his thing—but he remembered Ron spending entire Saturdays hunched over his chessboard in the Gryffindor common room, accosting everyone who passed by and beseeching them to play.

And so Neville said okay, and they spent the rest of the weekend in much the same fashion—playing chess (Ron told Neville he was getting better, but Neville didn't think so), shagging (Neville knew he was getting better at that), talking, sleeping, and eating takeaway.

It was the best weekend Neville had spent in a very long time.

Monday morning dawned bright and cold and far too early. Ron groaned when Neville slipped from under his arm and out of bed.

"Stay," he mumbled from the cave of the bedclothes.

"Can't," said Neville, "I have to go to work."

"Staaaaaay," Ron moaned, his face still buried in his pillow, "Nev, stay."

And at ten o'clock, when Neville sat in front of Malfoy's desk, he really wished he'd heeded Ron's request.

Malfoy was as cranky and as snotty as usual, and when Neville didn't have anything for him, he became even worse.

Neville stood suddenly in the middle of Malfoy's tirade and gave a jerky wave of his hand.

"I—I'm not going to have this argument with you again! I'm sick of it! You'll get th-the plants wh-when I get them, and no sooner, and you can—you can brew your sodding potion again if you have to, because I'm leaving, because I have work to do!"

And Neville left Malfoy sitting stunned behind his desk.

In the elevator, Neville finally breathed, and he unclenched his fists, and he laughed a breathy, disbelieving laugh. God, it felt good to stand up to Malfoy! He half-expected a Howler when he arrived back at his own office, but the only correspondence that arrived for him all day was from Ron:

Nev,

It's bloody boring here without you now. Say you'll spend the night again? I'll be home around ten.

R.

Neville wrote only a single line back, smiling as he did so:

R—

I thought we were skipping the courtship stuff.

N.

And when Ron's reply arrived, Neville laughed out loud:

Okay, then—

See you at home, sweetheart. Have dinner ready, and keep the children quiet—It's been a hell of a day. Maybe wear that outfit I like so much. The lacy thing.

R.

Ron must have spent a small fortune at the post office over the next couple of days owling Neville at work. Not until late Wednesday night, when the two of them were entangled on the sofa after a rather rousing bout of sofa-sex, did Neville think to ask why Ron no longer had an owl of his own.

"Well," said Ron, scratching his neck and looking away, "You remember Pig?"

"'Course."

"Um, he—he died. So."

"Oh. Oh, I'm really sorry."

Ron put his head on Neville's chest. "Yeah. And I felt like shite when he did, cos I always thought he was so bloody annoying, and I should have treated him better."

"And you don't want to get another—"

"No."

They were silent for a moment, then Neville put his fingers in Ron's hair. "How'd he die?"

"Crashed through a window. He was really small, you know?"

Neville didn't know what else to say, and so he said nothing, just carded his fingers through Ron's hair.

"That's nice," said Ron after a moment.

And then Neville must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing he knew, he was waking up.

At first he wasn't sure what had awakened him. Ron was snoring lightly, his head still on Neville's chest, but Ron always snored, had since their school days, and so it couldn't have been that.

Neville looked up at the window above the sofa. The moon was waning, but it was still bright, and it illuminated the silhouette of an unusually large owl of the sort Neville knew were used for overseas deliveries, sitting on the sill, tapping at the pane.

"Ron," said Neville, shaking Ron's shoulder, "You've an owl."

"Mmm?" mumbled Ron from the edge of sleep.

"Owl," Neville repeated, and he sat up. Ron woke when his head bumped on the arm of the sofa, and, grousing, he opened the window and took the battered envelope from the owl's beak.

"From Charlie," he said, sounding fully awake now. "I wonder—" Ron tore open the envelope and scanned the letter quickly, then gave a happy little Oh and thrust the parchment at Neville.

Ronnikins—

Yeah, it's completely illegal, probably.

Give me a few days. I might have to bring them myself.

Charlie.

"Bring what?" asked Neville, puzzled, "And what's illegal?"

Ron raised his eyebrows and grinned a highly suspicious grin.

"What?" When Ron didn't respond, only wrinkled his nose and laughed, utterly pleased with whatever he'd done, Neville tossed the letter at him. It fell ineffectually to the floor. "What have you done, Ron?"

"Come here, little boy, and I'll tell you." Ron patted his lap, leering like a dirty old man, and Neville straddled him, putting his hands on Ron's face and shaking it gently back and forth.

"What have you done? You're not going to get in trouble, are you?"

"Not unless we're caught," said Ron, which Neville supposed was a fair enough assessment. "I didn't tell you before because I honestly didn't know if Charlie'd be able to help. But I know he works with a lot of magical plants, and I know he's usually as up for this sort of thing as anyone, and I know Romania and Brazil are on really good terms, so…" Ron trailed off, and Neville's mouth dropped open and he gave a little surprised noise.

"You didn't."

"Looks like I did."

"Oh, my god, that's great—I'll get Malfoy off my back, he won't use the European plants, and—god, Ron, you're the greatest. Have I told you that lately?" Overjoyed, Neville threw his arms around Ron and planted a smacking kiss on his forehead. Crushed by Neville's embrace, Ron laughed and shoved at him.

"Gerroff! The only time I like you to crush me's when you're fucking me!"

"That could be arranged," said Neville, rolling off Ron and onto the sofa cushion.

"Tomorrow," said Ron, stifling a yawn, "Right now, I think we need the bed for other purposes."

Neville lay awake in bed for quite some time, smiling up into the darkness.

And when he appeared at Malfoy's desk the next morning, the blond greeted him with the traditional sneer, but Neville didn't mind. Not today.

"Just a few days on those Brazilian plants," he said casually, ignoring Malfoy's expression of disbelief. "They should be in your hands by the weekend." He left the office biting his lip to keep from smiling like an idiot.

The plants did arrive by the weekend, just barely. Neville came home (he was starting to think of Ron's flat as home now, especially since he'd taken to keeping things there on Ron's insistence, and that was all right, really) on Friday evening to see not one, but two grinning, freckled redheads sprawled on the sofa.

And in front of them, in the centre of the coffee table, were three tiny pots containing three tiny seedlings, their dark red spikes bristling, little tentacles creeping in Neville's direction as he stood in the doorway.

"Oh, my god," he said reverently, and he knelt by the table, reaching out towards the plants. He snatched his hand back before he touched one, however, and pulled on a dragonhide glove.

"They're gorgeous," he said at a near whisper as a tiny tendril wrapped itself around his outstretched finger. "I've never seen such amazing specimens."

Neville looked up at Charlie and Ron, who were leaning forward, watching him inspect the plants.

"Thank you—thank you so much—these are seriously amazing. God, I wish I could keep one."

"Not in my flat," said Ron, "Those things are definitely creepy." He came around the table and hugged Neville from behind. Neville glanced up in alarm.

"Ron—"

"It's okay, Nev. Charlie knows."

"…Um." Neville flicked his eyes up towards Charlie, who averted his face and pretended to gag.

"I didn't say I wanted to see it," he said, laughing, "You two are so cute together I think I might be sick. I can't stay much longer—think you can wait 'til I'm gone to get all lovey-dovey?"

Neville's face was on fire, but he smiled up at Charlie, who'd accomplished in only a few days what he, with his forms and paperwork, had been unable to do.

"Thanks, Charlie," he said, "Seriously, thank you—get off, Ron—so much. I doubt there's anything I could do for you, but if there ever is—"

Charlie cut Neville off with a wave of his large, freckled hand. "Just treat my little brother well," he said, his blue eyes merry, "Though I don't think I have to tell you that. From what Ron says, you're pretty special."

Neville blushed again, wondering exactly how much Charlie knew about their relationship, but despite his embarrassment, he stood, pulling his glove off, and went around the table to shake Charlie's hand.

Charlie had other plans, though. He pulled Neville into a crushing hug. Charlie was even stronger than Ron was, and Neville flailed a little and gasped for air.

"You're practically family now, Neville, so it's hugs for you," declared Charlie, thumping Neville soundly on the back.

"Am I going to have to defend what's mine?" asked Ron, and Charlie pulled him into the hug, too, crushing him and Neville together.

"God—Charlie! What the bloody—we're going to start kissing if you don't let us go!" exclaimed Ron. Charlie released them from the punishing hug and winked at Neville.

"You're lucky I live too far away to visit often, Neville. I love to hug. Isn't that right, Ronnikins?" He ruffled Ron's hair and Ron punched him, then the two brothers engaged in a mock-tussle on the sofa. Neville was torn between protecting the Tentaculas from flying arms and legs and watching the brothers wrestle. He settled for sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of the seedlings as Charlie bested Ron, holding him down to the sofa with one muscled arm.

"Give up?" asked Charlie, grinning maniacally.

"Never!" declared Ron, and he struggled against Charlie's grip, laughing. But a moment later, the smile fell from Charlie's face.

"Uh-oh," he said, jerking away from Ron and groping in his pocket, "I think my Portkey's—"

And with a whooshing sound, Charlie was gone.

"That was sudden," observed Neville.

"Usually is," said Ron from his prone position on the sofa, "I hardly ever get to see him, and when he's home, it's never for long. Glad he could get away for even an hour, though—you should've seen the look on your face, Nev, when you saw those plants."

"They're really amazing, though, aren't they?" Neville moved to the floor, knelt, and turned back to the Tentacula seedlings, pulling on his glove once again. He stroked the blood-red spikes of the closest one softly, worshipfully, and it bristled under his touch, sending a thin, strong tentacle out to squeeze Neville's finger. "I can't believe Charlie'd do this for me. He doesn't even know me."

"But you're mine," said Ron, sliding from the sofa to sit on the floor beside Neville, "And he knows how much I care for you, and he'd do anything for me, so…" Ron shrugged.

"How much you love me," said Neville half-under his breath.

"What?" Ron slipped his arm around Neville's waist and put his head on Neville's shoulder.

"He knows how much you love me," Neville corrected, and Ron exhaled beside him.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a low murmur, "I really do."

"Okay," said Neville, smiling, the little tendril still tight around his finger, Ron's arm secure around his waist, "Okay."

He couldn't say more—he couldn't trust his voice not to break.

The three of them—Neville, Ron, and the seedling—stayed twined together for several quiet moments. Then Ron spoke.

"Bit of bad news, though."

"What is it?" Ron didn't sound too concerned, so maybe it wasn't too bad.

"I got sacked today."

"Oh, no!"

"Mmm-hmm."

Neville gently disentangled his finger form the baby plant's grip, then turned to Ron. "What—what happened?"

Ron sat up and gave a little sigh. "I guess Lizzie saw me the other day when I owled off from work. Getting the takeaway, you know? She was still cross with me—she can really hold a grudge, that bitch—so she told Roger, and…well, he was basically looking for a reason anyway. So. I'm officially unemployed. Don't worry, though—jobs like mine, they're everywhere."

"But—but you said you'd been there for a couple of years! Won't you--?"

"It'll be okay," said Ron, "I'll go out tomorrow to look for another job." And he leaned his head on Neville's shoulder again.

Neville paused, staring at the Tentacula seedlings, two of which were now twining tendrils around each other.

"Why don't we…" he said softly, trailing off, watching the plants move and twist together.

"What?" asked Ron from Neville's shoulder.

Neville drew a deep breath. "Come and live with me," he said, "And you can take your time looking for a job. My flat's bigger, anyway, and n—um—"

"Nicer?"

"Well—"

"This place is little. I know. And it's not in the best neighbourhood. And the roof leaks in the kitchen when it rains. Um, and that thing you said before."

"Which?"

"About me loving you."

Neville bit his lip and smiled. "So, then?"

"Okay," said Ron after a moment, "Let's do it."

"The Tentaculas will be there all weekend," said Neville, stroking the spikes of one of them.

"But so will you," said Ron, and that was that.

They spent all of Saturday moving Ron's things into Neville's larger, neater, nicer flat. Ron notified his landlord of his new address and paid up whilst Neville cleaned the flat with a series of incantations and wand flicks and a bottle of Mrs Skower's.

"Goodbye, little flat," said Ron, just before they Apparated away, "I'll never forget you as the place where I first shagged Neville Longbottom."

Neville was still laughing as they appeared in his flat.

"You know," he said, gently setting down the last box of Ron's things, "It's not until you say something like that that I ever stop to think about how incredibly weird this all is."

"What of it?" asked Ron. "We're just two blokes sharing a flat. It's happened before in the history of England, I'm sure."

"Two blokes who happen to be shagging," Neville pointed out, "Who only met for the first time in years a week ago"

"Are we shagging?" asked Ron, moving closer, "I—I can't seem to remember. Prove it to me."

"You're smooth," said Neville, laughing, but he kissed Ron anyway, wrapping his arms around Ron's broad back.

"Hmm," said Ron, coming up from the kiss, "This does seem vaguely familiar. I think you'll have to show me some more, though, just to convince me. Perhaps in the bedroom."

In Neville's neat bedroom, on Neville's wide, clean-sheeted bed, they made love, slowly, exploring each other's bodies in their new home together.

"You remember now?" teased Neville, kissing his way down Ron's chest, licking at scattered freckles.

"Remind me, remind me," murmured Ron.

Neville took Ron's cock in his mouth for only the second time ever, still amazed at the taste, the warmth, the life pulsing under the velvet-hard skin.

"Oh, fuck," gasped Ron, twining his fingers in Neville's hair, "Yes, Nev, fuck, yes."

Neville hummed a little around Ron's cock and stroked his fingers along Ron's taut thighs, then over his balls, eliciting another series of groans and half-words from Ron.

The more Ron babbled, the closer Neville knew Ron was to coming, and so he stroked Ron's balls faster, and he hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, and when Ron arched up and begged and moaned please Nev fuck yes, Neville dragged a fingertip over Ron's arsehole, and Ron came, spurting into Neville's mouth. Neville let the come dribble back down Ron's cock, coating him in his own release, then sat up, wiping his mouth, staring at what he'd caused: Ron, spent, satiated, eyes closed, mouth open, a low moan escaping his parted lips.

"Neville," said Ron, "Fuck. That was—"

But Ron didn't—couldn't—finish his sentence. Instead he reached out his arm for Neville, who settled down next to him, sliding up along Ron's side, sighing as Ron closed his arm around his shoulders.

"You remember now?" asked Neville, pressing his erection into Ron's hip.

"Yeah, I think I do," said Ron, "But maybe I'd better help you with that—" and he reached for Neville's cock "—just to be sure."

"Ohh," moaned Neville, and Ron moved languidly down, down, until they had switched positions and Neville was in Ron's mouth, and it didn't take long before Neville was jerking his hips off the bed and saying Ron, Ron, like it was an incantation, and coming, coming into Ron's eager mouth.

And then everything was a bit hazy and Ron's face was near Neville's again, and Ron said he remembered, now, and Neville laughed.

"Good," he said through the fog of post-orgasmic weakness, "Because I'm far too tired to show you again."

It didn't take long for Ron to become settled in Neville's flat. In some ways, everything was new. Neville's flat was laid out differently and there were moments when the two of them danced nervously around each other, but the dust settled before things got weird again, and they were comfortable. The weekend went by too quickly—half of Ron's things were still packed by Sunday evening, but on Monday, when Neville left for work, the Tentaculas safely stowed in a little box under his arm, Ron said he'd take the day to finish settling.

"Take your time," said Neville, leaning into the kiss Ron offered, "We've got as long as we need."

And time was on Neville's side when he arrived at St Mungo's, too. He placed the little box on Malfoy's desk, and the blond didn't look up for a moment, but finished the form he was filling out, then sneered up at Neville.

"What's this?"

Neville suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"The plants," he said simply, and Malfoy's eyes widened a little. Neville nodded, and Malfoy peered into the box, his expression changing almost to one of delight as he reached one finger out towards the seedlings.

"Oh, don't—" said Neville, and he held out one of his dragonhide gloves so Malfoy could safely touch the plants. One of the Tentaculas curled itself curiously around Malfoy's gloved finger just as it had done to Neville's, and Neville could almost have sworn he saw a genuine smile cross Malfoy's face.

"These will do," Malfoy said, his voice softer than usual, "I won't have to start over." He disentangled himself from the plant and stripped off Neville's glove, shoving it across the desk, then swept up the box and headed for his office door.

"That'll be all, Longbottom," he called over his shoulder as he headed for the elevator, and Neville supposed that was probably as close as Malfoy ever came to saying thank you. Neville smiled and hummed a little under his breath as he closed Malfoy's office door and headed back to the Ministry.

Neville didn't hear from Malfoy again for another three months. By then, cruel winter had turned to unpredictable spring, and Ron (who had found good work in the children's section at the local branch of the Muggle library) and Neville were cohabiting quite comfortably. Neville had almost told Ron he loved him a couple of times, too, but the words had refused to fall off his tongue, and he choked on them. But they'd achieved a nice sort of balance, which was what Neville supposed was supposed to happen when you lov—well, when you found the person you were meant to—well, when you were happy.

Which he was.

And then, on a blustery Sunday afternoon, when Neville and Ron were sprawled on the sofa together, a roaring fire going, Neville in Ron's dressing gown, Ron wearing a (matching) pair of Neville's socks, sharing the newspaper and sipping tea and all in all enjoying themselves, there came an enormous eagle owl tapping on the kitchen window.

"Who on earth has an owl like that?" asked Ron, looking up, but Neville knew full well whose it was, and he gave a little sigh and got up to retrieve the envelope the owl had brought.

Inside was a single piece of parchment, torn across the top, three letters straggling across it in a bold, primitive scrawl:

NVL

Neville made a face at the parchment, furrowing his brow and wrinkling his nose. Why had Malfoy sent his precious eagle owl out on such a day as this to deliver…whatever this was? He showed the parchment to Ron, who said it was probably Malfoy's idea of a joke, but neither of them could figure out what about it could possibly be funny.

"Envy-ell," said Ron, "En-vell…Anvil?"

"Neville," said Neville, and Ron snatched the parchment from him, studying the letters.

"Maybe," he said, and he tossed it aside, picking up the sports page once again. "It's probably just Malfoy being an arse, as usual. Forget about it." And Ron buried himself in the paper once again.

But Neville didn't agree with Ron. Sure, Malfoy could be a real idiot at times, but somehow Neville didn't think this was one of those times. He paced from the sofa to the fireplace and back a few times, then picked up the parchment again, studied it, and knelt in front of the fireplace.

"What're you doing?" asked Ron.

"Making a call," said Neville, and he threw some powder into the flames.

Momentarily, Malfoy's face appeared before him, wearing an extremely bothered expression.

"What is it, Longbottom? I'm busy."

"What's this you sent me?"

"Oh—I didn't explain?" asked Malfoy, a little too casually.

"No," said Neville, plainly, and he waited.

Malfoy looked unconcerned. "Your mum wanted me to send that along," he said, and it took a moment for Malfoy's words to sink in.

Neville was certain he'd heard wrong.

"My—what?" he choked, running a hand over his face.

"Your mum," said Malfoy slowly, as if he were addressing a very small child, "The woman who gave birth to you. Alice Longbottom."

"No—" said Neville at a whisper, realisation washing over him like icewater, "No—she—I was just there a few days ago, and she was—"

"Visiting hours begin at eight tomorrow morning," snapped Malfoy, "Is there anything else?"

Neville choked out no and ended the call, his breathing coming in unsteady short bursts. He tried to stand, but he was dizzy, and his knees gave out. He sank onto the hearthrug, trying to catch his breath.

"What is it?" asked Ron, putting down the paper, "Is everything all right?"

"My—" Neville tried, "My—mum."

"Oh, fuck, oh shit, Nev, what's happened?" Ron rushed to Neville's side.

Neville held out the parchment, his hand trembling. "My mum," he repeated, "Ron—my mum, she—she wrote this. My name."

Ron was silent for a moment, his brow furrowing as he looked at the parchment.

"But I thought your mum was—"

"Yeah," said Neville, and suddenly a laugh bubbled up inside him, breaking through the barrier of shock, and he closed his eyes and clutched his mother's missive and he laughed until he couldn't breathe anymore and his eyes overflowed and his nose ran, and still he laughed, collapsing into Ron's embrace, sniffling against Ron's shoulder.

"My mum," he gasped against Ron's now-sodden T-shirt, "My mum—and maybe my dad—I wonder—how did—god—" and he buried his face in Ron's neck and gave a shuddering sigh.

Neville didn't sleep that night.

He showed up at St Mungo's at seven-thirty the next morning and sat, knees bouncing, in one of the hard chairs until the clock above the reception desk read seven fifty-five.

"May I please—?" he said to the tired-looking witch there, and she gave a little smile and waved him on.

Neville forced himself to walk slowly down the fourth-floor corridors, lest he collide with any of the busy, green-robed medical staff. He counted the wards as he passed to keep his mind off how very far away Ward 49 really was. It lay nearly at the end of a long corridor, and Neville's pulse quickened as he approached.

Bright morning sunlight flooded the ward, and at first Neville only blinked, his eyes adjusting. At the end of the ward, the curtains that usually hung around his parents' beds had been pushed back, and there were two thin figures sitting very close together on his mum's bed, a healer bustling around them.

Neville exhaled slowly and approached the bed. The healer looked up at the sound of his footfall and smiled.

"Mr Longbottom," she greeted him, then she turned to her patients. "Here's Neville," she said softly.

"Mum," said Neville, and he took her hand. "Mum, it's Neville."

Alice Longbottom turned her wide eyes upon her son, and after a moment, a timid smile crossed her round face, and she put out her hand.

"Nnn," she said, and Neville took her thin hand, feeling every bone and tendon beneath his gentle grasp.

"Mum," he whispered, "Yeah, it's me, it's Neville." Tears pricked dangerously at the back of his eyes as Neville's mum pulled at his dad's robe with her free hand.

"Nnn," she said again, still looking up wondrously at Neville, and Neville's dad nodded slowly, his dark brown eyes still fixed on the circle on the wall at which he always stared.

"Dad?" whispered Neville, and he cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder. "Dad?"

"He hasn't come as far yet," the healer said, "He can't speak. But he can hear you, so you can talk to him. Stay as long as you like. I'll just be across the corridor if you need anything."

Neville nodded, not looking away from his dad's blank face. His mum squeezed his hand, then, her grip surprisingly strong.

"Nnn," she said a third time, more emphatically, and she brought their clasped hands to her bony chest. "Mmm," she said.

"Mum—yes!" said Neville, "Mum, and Neville. And Dad—Frank," he said, touching their hands to his dad's shoulder.

At the touch, Neville's dad blinked suddenly and turned his head to see what had come into contact with his shoulder. He stared at Neville's hand clasped with Alice's for a long, silent moment, then brought his own bony hand up to cover them both.

"F-fr-fr," stammered Alice, and Neville closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath.

"They've got a way to go yet," said a sudden loud voice from the entrance of the ward. Neville whipped his head around, startled, and there was Malfoy, standing in the doorway.

"Wait—you—?" stammered Neville, and suddenly everything fell into place.

"Those Brazilian plants were amazing," said Malfoy, striding down the ward, "Really potent. Nice stuff." He stopped a few feet from the family and folded his arms across his chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Neville, gaping, disbelieving.

Malfoy shrugged. "I was originally creating a potion for paralysis victims. It didn't work, but your parents' healer heard about it and thought it might do them some good. Apparently it has. As I said, though, it'll be some time before they can function normally. You'd best thank whomever got you those plants. I know you—" he glanced around, then stepped closer and lowered his voice. "I know you got them through less-than-legal channels, but if you keep mum, then so will I. I stand to gain a major promotion for my work, so have we got a deal?"

Neville laughed a shallow, disbelieving laugh. "Yeah," he said, nodding his head, "We—we definitely do." He looked at his hand, still clasped with his mum's and his dad's. "We definitely have a deal."

"Good," said Malfoy, and he strode back down the ward as confidently as he'd come in.

"Wait," Neville called after him. Malfoy stopped in the doorway, but he didn't turn around.

"How long will it take?" Neville asked. "And how much will they improve?"

Malfoy gave a long-suffering sigh and turned, his arms crossed. "I'm not a healer," he said, "I've no idea."

And he left.

"Nnn," said Neville's mum, squeezing his hand, and Neville turned back to her.

"Mum," he said. "Mum, you wrote me that letter—you wrote my name—"

She nodded, her round face sincere. "Neh," she said emphatically, and that was when the tears spilled from Neville's eyes.

"My god, Nev, I think I'd've cried," Ron said later. Neville had spent the whole day with his parents, sitting on the bed with them, their thin hands clasped in his, and telling them about his life, with the occasional Nnn or Neh from his mum. When the healer told him it was past visiting hours and he'd have to leave, his parents still smiled.

Neville knew that they knew he'd be back.

Neville looked up into Ron's face.

"Yeah—I did," he admitted, and then he ducked his head.

But a moment later he looked at Ron again. If he could admit that, then—

"And I love you," he added quickly, and he didn't look away.

Ron kept still.

"I do," Neville said.

"Okay," Ron said then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Okay."

Neville was a little dizzy. He leaned forward and rested his head on the table, snaking a hand across it, which Ron enveloped in his own larger, warmer one. Neville squeezed, and Ron squeezed back, and Neville understood.

Okay had always been sort of a relative concept to Neville—he did okay in school, he had an okay job, he did okay work. But now it was an absolute—for the first time in Neville Longbottom's twenty-six years on the planet, it actually seemed like everything was truly going to be okay.