InsaneJournal

Okay Is A Relative Concept (Neville/Ron, NC-17) (Part 1 of 2)
Title: Okay Is A Relative Concept (Part 1 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.


The restaurant was far too posh, far too crowded, and far too vast for Neville's taste. Naturally, it was Malfoy's favourite place to eat, as he'd bragged to Neville countless times.

Neville scanned the room nervously for the white-blond head he had come to know far too well from too many international midnight firecalls over the past few months, and, not seeing it, slumped a little. Had Malfoy forgotten? Perhaps he was just late? Maybe he—

"Mr Longbottom?"

Neville jumped at the voice. He turned, eyes wide, to see a tuxedoed and moustachioed maitre d'hotel standing by the podium, one white-gloved hand clutching a piece of parchment.

"That's me," Neville replied, wondering how on earth this man knew who he was.

"This has just come for you." The host thrust the parchment at Neville, who wondered briefly if he should perhaps tip the man, then, when he had already put his hand into his pocket, decided against it.

"Er. Thanks," Neville stammered, withdrawing his hand from his pocket and taking the parchment.

It was from Malfoy, only a few short words notifying Neville that he'd be late, and advising him to be seated and wait.

And so Neville approached the maitre d' again, his face burning, and was shortly thereafter seated in what was probably the best table in the house, an expansive menu in his hands, and a somewhat glazed look on his face.

This was not what Neville had expected. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, honestly, but not this.

A porter approached his table and asked him about his water preferences. Neville didn't know there was a preference to be had. He noticed the couple the next table over were sharing something from a clear bottle, and so he just nodded towards them.

"Very good, sir," murmured the young porter, and he disappeared, returning moments later with the water, pouring some for Neville. Neville nodded his thanks and took a sip. It was so good and so cool on his dry-from-nerves tongue. This restaurant was really a rather unsettling place for someone unused to all this pomp and circumstance surrounding the simple act of eating. Neville swallowed and scanned the room for Malfoy again. He still wasn't there.

He was probably underdressed, Neville decided, smoothing the front of his best robes. He tried not to look around the room at all the well-dressed people there, and so he occupied himself in his menu.

He was trying to work out exactly what "aubergine caviar" could possibly be when someone cleared his throat very near to him.

Neville jumped.

It was Malfoy.

He didn't apologise for his tardiness. Of course. Neville supposed the Malfoy family motto was probably something along the lines of "A Malfoy Never Apologises". Neville lowered his menu and blinked slowly at Malfoy, waiting for him to speak first.

And he did.

"Who ordered this water?" Malfoy sneered, sitting down and picking up the bottle. He held it at arm's length as if it contained a deadly poison instead of the rather refreshing water Neville had been drinking.

"I—I did."

"Really? You ordered Panna?" Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You would." He raised a hand to the young porter, and Neville only rolled his eyes. He had learned, from working with Malfoy for so long, that the only way not to exacerbate his behaviour was to ignore it.

"Bring us some Quarzia," Malfoy ordered when the porter approached, "Still. And take this away," he sneered, with a derisive nod towards the water Neville had unwittingly ordered. The boy nodded, took the bottle and disappeared without a word, returning moments later with an oddly-shaped cobalt blue bottle.

"That's better," Malfoy declared.

Neville sipped his Panna. It was good.

"Now," said Malfoy, looking around impatiently, "Where's our waiter?"

"I haven't seen—"

But at that moment a red-haired man approached their table.

Neville stared.

The waiter stared.

Malfoy perused the menu.

"Ron?" Neville finally managed. He smiled, then, and the waiter smiled back.

"Yeah," said Ron happily, "Nev, my god, how long has it been? What're you doing here?"

Neville looked across the table at Malfoy. "I, um. I'm—"

Malfoy lowered the menu then and raised an eyebrow at Ron. "Weasley!" he declared a little too delightedly, "How long have you been working here?"

"I—" Ron looked from Malfoy to Neville, then back again. He began to speak, cleared his throat, then began again. "Ah, just over two years now. Started as a porter. I've been waiting tables for about a year and a half. And…you?" He was looking at Neville.

"Oh—I'm at the Ministry, still, but I've been out of the—"

But Malfoy interrupted Neville, pointing to something on the Starters menu.

"These mussels, Weasley, where are they from?" he asked imperially.

"Oh—Prince Edward Island." Neville glanced at the Starters. The Prince Edward Island Mussels with Champagne Mignonette were the first item listed. Neville rolled his eyes behind his menu.

"Hmm," pondered Malfoy, "I've never been particularly fond of those." He tapped his forefinger against his chin. Ron shifted from foot to foot and glanced at his other tables, then turned back to Neville and Malfoy.

"What about the tiger prawns? Are they fresh?" Malfoy asked.

"Of course. We get our seafood daily." Neville, who had decided on the braised lamb shank approximately five seconds after opening his menu, could tell Ron was struggling to maintain his composure. Neville knew he would've wanted to punch Malfoy already himself. And Neville didn't often feel compelled to punch people.

With Malfoy, however, it was generally a different story.

But neither Neville nor Ron, who was glancing worriedly at his other tables again, made a move, and Malfoy prattled on.

"Well, I think I'll have…let me see…the tiger prawns to start, yes, but I don't think I'd care for the beetroot coulis. Let me have the prawns—and I want five instead of three, you tell the chef that—without the sauce, but you can put some of the mignonette from the mussels on them. Perhaps on a bed of rocket. With some crispy pancetta, as I see you've got some on the seabass here. Yes, I think that'll do nicely. For my starter."

Ron nodded, flicking his wand frantically at a device he held in his hand which, Neville guessed, sent orders back to the kitchen and the (presumably already annoyed with their table) chef.

"Neville? Starter?"

"Oh—" Neville hadn't even considered a starter. He glanced down the list. "Er. Just a salad. Um, a Caesar salad," he said apologetically.

"If you're quite through?" queried Malfoy, finger poised on the menu, one eyebrow dangerously quirked.

"Right. Sorry," mumbled Neville.

"You're fine, Nev," said Ron quietly. He glanced back at his other tables—a few of which had customers looking visibly upset that Ron had been at Neville's table for so long—and turned again to Malfoy.

"For your meal?" He gave Malfoy a smile which was almost a grimace, and Neville had a funny feeling that Ron was biting back a sarcastic "sir".

"Tell me about the duck breast."

"The duck. Right. It's pan-seared and oven-roasted with blood orange juice, wild clover honey, fingerling potatoes, and both braised and frizzled leeks." Ron repeated this as if by rote, and, though he could have added "just as it says on the fucking menu", he diplomatically did not. Neville shot him a sympathetic look, and he thought he saw a tiny, genuine smile cross Ron's face.

"Hmm," countered Malfoy, tapping his finger on the menu. "Let me see here. The pork belly. Is it very salty?"

"It's roasted in a salt crust, but it's not salty at all," said Ron, his exasperation showing through. "It's excellent."

Malfoy cocked an eyebrow at Ron. Apparently a Weasley's approval of a dish automatically nixed it from the possible choices.

Malfoy swirled a finger over the menu then, finally landing decidedly on a particular item.

"I'll have the loin of venison," he finally declared, "Rare." Neville let out a tiny sigh of relief. He had been starting to think that nothing on the menu was going to meet Malfoy's impossible standards.

"One venison. Right," answered Ron, flicking his wand at his order device. He took Neville's menu and was reaching for Malfoy's, when Malfoy made it known that he was not nearly done ordering.

"But," he said, holding a finger aloft, "I don't care for asparagus. Bring me the braised leeks from the duck dish with it instead. And I only want a little jus. I don't want my meat swimming on the plate. The tomato confit's fine, but leave off the rosemary rub. Sea salt and freshly ground—make sure it's freshly ground—black pepper will do." Malfoy closed his menu with a snap, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"The veni—right, all right, I've got it," said Ron. He looked over at Neville, who hurriedly ordered the lamb, then hastened to the most visibly annoyed of his other tables, attempting to pacify his customers.

Neville glared across the table at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked back.

"Now, about those Tentaculas," the blond said, as if he was continuing a conversation that had been interrupted by Ron's appearance, instead of one that had occurred hours ago at the Ministry.

Neville ignored him, glaring. "That was rotten," he finally managed, "To treat Ron like that."

"Like what?" asked Malfoy, feigning innocence. "I like my meal how I like it. I haven't the patience nor the energy to deal with ego-driven chefs who insist the food be prepared their way. At any rate," he continued, unflustered, "About those Tentaculas, Longbottom, how long will it take to get them into the country? Aside from any import laws, of course, which I'm certain can be rearranged." He waved an airy hand as if the prospect of customs was far too pedestrian for him even to consider.

Neville sighed. He knew Malfoy had been waiting on pins and needles for information on the plants that Neville had been scouting for the past month, and Neville had promised him answers—the Venomous Tentaculas were, after all, not for Malfoy's personal use, but for the use of the Exploratory Potions Department at St Mungo's. Malfoy wouldn't say what they were working on (though Neville never ceased to hold out hope for a cure for his parents' dementia), but he'd filed all the right papers and Neville was obligated to see the deal through.

"As I told you, Malfoy, our relations with Brazil are a little unsteady at the moment. If you want to wait six months or so, we'll probably be able to pull something through. Brazil's had a great crop this year, and it's highly regulated. Those Tentaculas are the ones you want. I can get you some cheaper and quicker from Hungary, but those…" Neville trailed off, shaking his head. "Just…you don't want those, okay? Not for medicine. Trust me. I'm just back from there; I saw how they grow them. Trust me."

Malfoy looked as though he trusted Neville about as far as he could throw him, but Neville was spared from hearing the insult as Ron arrived with their starters.

"Mmm," muttered Malfoy, inhaling the steam rising from his (five) prawns, "I think these will be fine." He fluttered his serviette onto his lap and began to eat, delicately, ignoring Ron.

"Thanks, Ron," said Neville, once again feeling awkward as Ron placed his salad in front of him.

"Not a problem," replied Ron, smiling. "Do you need anyth—"

"Weasley, we'll need more water," Malfoy interrupted, "Very soon. And not that utter shit that Longbottom ordered."

"Right," replied Ron, in clipped tones, the benignly pleasant look fading fast from his face, "I'll be right back." He turned on his heel and marched away, squaring his shoulders.

"These are excellent," said Malfoy, gesturing towards his prawns, "Much better this way than with beet greens or whatever ridiculous thing that was." He speared a prawn on his fork and twirled it above his plate.

Neville only glared at Malfoy for a long moment, then stabbed at his salad.

The meal went on much in the same fashion, Malfoy deriding Ron every chance he got, Ron obviously biting his tongue for the sake of his job, and Neville, caught in the middle, feeling like an utter arse. All Neville had wanted to do tonight was go straight home and order some takeaway and just enjoy being back on British soil for a couple of days before he had to report back to work, but Malfoy had sent someone to meet him at the Portkey station, and Neville had hardly had time to Apparate home and dress for dinner before the appointed time. So sod Malfoy and his stupid fancy restaurant and his five prawns and his braised leeks and his Tentaculas—

Well, maybe not the Tentaculas. Neville actually cared rather a lot about those.

A meal with Malfoy was never a quick bite, and the restaurant had cleared out by the time their meal was over. It had to be closing time, or even past—Neville had watched diners and servers alike leaving as Malfoy babbled on and on, taking his time through his venison loin and some ridiculously towering chocolate thing he ordered (with vanilla semifreddo, not ginger, and hold the crème anglaise), dropping tantalising hints about his Very Secret Tentacula Project, which Neville ignored, except to occasionally remind Malfoy that nothing was certain yet.

After their meal (Malfoy paid, and Neville didn't make the slightest move to insist otherwise—let him pay, the stupid arse), and as Neville was donning his cloak, Ron passed, and Neville stopped him.

"Listen, I'm really sorry about Malfoy," he said quickly.

"Hey, Nev, don't worry about it. Malfoy's—just, uh, don't worry about it." Ron took a step away, but Neville caught his arm.

"What?" Ron clearly had something he wanted to say, but he was holding back.

"Nothing. I—have a great night, Nev." It was then that Neville realised Malfoy was standing right behind him. Malfoy took a step forward and, glancing over Ron, took Neville's arm.

"Come on, Long—Neville. You can walk me home." Malfoy's voice was oddly simpering, and Neville stood still for a moment, his mouth slightly open. Ron blinked.

"See you around," Ron said then, dully, and he walked away.

After a moment, Neville shook himself loose of Malfoy.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Just come on."

Malfoy lead Neville out of the restaurant, and when they were in the chilly air, he moved away from Neville, brushing imaginary lint from the sleeve of his (no doubt mind-numbingly expensive) robes, and started to walk away into the night.

"Wait—Malfoy, what—wait!"

Malfoy turned, an utterly annoyed look on his face. "What is it, Longbottom?"

"I—what—what was that, back there?"

Malfoy sighed and took a step forward. "That was me not letting Weasley near you. Don't think I have some sort of…displaced attraction to you, or anything. It's just that I have needs. And you're the one who can fulfil them. And while Weasley may not know that those needs are purely related to the import of venomous plants from possibly hostile territories, he doesn't need to know it, either."

Neville shook his head as if that would clear up whatever Malfoy was prattling on about. "Wait—wait, what?"

Malfoy sighed. "Listen, Weasley was clearly interested in you. I can't say I really care to think about the logistics of such a relationship, and besides, I need you to be thinking about work. Tentaculas, all right? Very important. No time for love." Malfoy said this last with a distinct sneer on his face.

"Wh—love?" Neville absolutely couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Malfoy ignored him and his obvious confusion and discomfort. "Be in my office at nine-thirty Monday mor—no, make it ten. Ten o'clock Monday morning. Don't be late."

"I thought we—"

"We're done for tonight. I'm fucking tired and I've got other people to see. Ten o'clock Monday, Longbottom. Sharp."

And Malfoy stepped away and Disapparated.

Neville was thoroughly disconcerted. What had Malfoy meant, love? Well, Neville knew what love meant, of course, but in this context, it was a decidedly odd assumption to make. Besides, Neville was—well, he liked girls. Rather a lot. And though naturally he'd considered the notion of doing things with men, it had only ever been in an abstract, what-if sort of way, and only that one time, after his cousin Eric had announced to the family that he was—well, that he was.

Well, all right, there had been one other time, too, when he'd accidentally walked in on Eric snogging his boyfriend, their shirts half-off, but even that hadn't really aroused him, just made him wonder, in that same abstract, what-if sort of way.

Not to put too fine a point on it, Neville was straight. Straight, and now thoroughly confused about what Malfoy had meant about Ron and love and…all of it.

Neville turned on the spot, instinctively, back towards the restaurant. He supposed later that it must have been the light and the warmth and his own disorientation that made him go back in, but whatever it was, he found himself standing once again before the maitre d', toeing the carpet like a schoolboy.

"May I help you, sir?" The maitre d' sounded weary now. The restaurant was quieter than it had been, and Neville realised belatedly that this was because it was closed, and all the patrons had taken their leave.

"Oh." Neville wasn't entirely sure why he was back. "Is—is Ron here? Ron Weasley?"

The maitre d' gave Neville an appraising look, then nodded over his shoulder. "In the back. He should be finished soon." Neville took the nod to mean that he should go and find Ron, and he set off across the dining room, slowly, looking for that familiar shock of red hair.

He didn't see Ron, but he surprised a dark-haired waitress who was busy polishing silverware. She jumped when he cleared his throat.

"I'm sorry," Neville said, "I—I'm looking for Ron?"

The waitress jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "In the back."

"Oh." Neville wasn't sure he wanted to admit that her directions had been no more helpful than the maitre d's. "Thanks." He followed the path she had so vaguely indicated. The only door led to what turned out to be the kitchen, a vast, shining place filled with cauldrons and ladles and larger knives than Neville had ever seen before. A large, bald, heavy-eyebrowed man was the sole occupant of the kitchen. He stood wiping the counter wearing a dirty white jacket, the sleeves rolled above his elbows, his tattooed forearms criss-crossed with a network of pink burn scars. He turned when Neville entered and crossed his arms over his barrel chest, a stained, wet towel dangling from his huge hand, and stared.

"Help you, mate?" he grunted suspiciously, after a moment.

Neville opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

He tried again, and squeaked.

Flushed with embarrassment, Neville managed to stammer that he was only looking for someone, and he must've come in the wrong door, and he was really very sorry, for he knew how protective a chef could be of his kitchen, and—

"Y'think I'm the chef?" the man laughed, uncrossing his arms and returning to wiping the counter with his filthy towel. "Good one. Nice one. Hah. Nah, he's in his office with one of the waiters." The cook jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards a windowed wooden door with the blind drawn.

"Y'lookin' for Roger?" the cook asked.

"Roger?"

"Chef," the man grunted, tossing his cloth into a bucket of sudsy water.

"N-no, for, um, for Ron. Weasley."

The cook quirked an eyebrow at him and smirked, then paused, and jerked his thumb over his shoulder again. Neville was honestly beginning to find the gesture a little annoying. "In the office. Be out in a few, I should imagine. Y'can wait in the dining room, if y'like."

And Neville liked that idea much more than he liked the idea of hanging around the kitchen with the cook, who had now begun to polish the very large knives, sliding them into slots in the wall. He nodded and backed out of the kitchen and sat on the banquette, picking at his fingernails and trying to look inconspicuous. He still wasn't sure why he was here, but he could hardly leave now that practically everyone in the place knew he was looking for Ron.

Neville watched the pretty, dark-haired waitress polish silverware for a while longer, until she finished and went to flirt with the barman. He thought it might be rude to watch that, though, so he went back to picking at his fingernails until a familiar voice roused him from his destructive pastime.

"Nev!" said Ron, approaching from the kitchen, "What's up? Everything okay?" He was smiling, but his brow was furrowed, and Neville stood quickly, holding his hands in front of him in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

"Ron! Hey! Yeah—yes—everything's okay. I, um—" Neville paused to consider, then realised he wasn't even certain what he was pausing to consider.

He ploughed on anyway.

"I wanted to apologise for Malfoy. He's an idiot," Neville said hurriedly, to fill the pause.

"Well," said Ron slowly, "I always thought so, but aren't you—"

"No, he really is. He's—he can be a real arse. He was completely embarrassing, and—oh—" Neville realised something. "That's not—just now—the chef? Are you in trouble?"

"Nah," said Ron, smiling, with a wave of his hand, "He just wanted to talk to me. About—okay, about your table—well, about Malfoy's order. It's all right, seriously. He just wanted to know if something was wrong." Ron paused, then leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial tone, "He's a bit mental, that one."

"Most are, or so I've heard," answered Neville, smiling now.

Ron laughed. "I knew I always liked you, Nev. Hey, I'm done—d'you want to get out of here? Get a pint or something, somewhere? Or—oh, are you, um, I guess you're probably still…" Ron trailed off, apparently unsure of what to say.

"Still what?" asked Neville, shoving his hands in his pockets. Apparently there was something he had been at one point that was making Ron uncomfortable, and he was damned if he knew what it was.

"With, uh."

"…With?"

"Er. Malfoy?"

"No, he left, quite a bit ago, actually, he said he was tired, and—oh. Oh—no, oh my god. No! You thought—no!" Neville flapped his hands frantically in front of him as if the action would make the idea that he would ever in a million years be anything more than just Malfoy's Ministry liaison go away.

"We—we work together! At the—he's with the—I work with—you really thought—god, no!"

During the course of Neville's flailing, Ron's face had gone from uncertainty to alarm to mild amusement, and finally he clapped Neville companionably on the shoulder, laughing.

"I am so sorry," he laughed, "Oh god, Nev, I just assumed—I mean, dinner here, and you're all dressed up, and—but of course not, of course not," he said, shaking his head.

"No!" said Neville again, still not entirely rid of the loathsome idea.

The pretty dark-haired waitress, who had apparently finished flirting with the barman, passed then, trailing a hand along Ron's shoulder.

"Going out tonight?" she asked.

"I'm going out with Neville," Ron answered. "Another time, Liz. Maybe."

Liz looked vaguely disappointed and pouted her full lower lip at Ron, ignoring Neville.

"Don't give me that pathetic look," Ron teased, "Go get a pint with Henry," he said, indicating the barman.

"Pfft," answered Liz, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder, "I'd rather go with you. You know that."

"I'm off the market, Lizzie," Ron answered, slinging an arm around Neville. "Nev's my date for the evening." And Ron led Neville away from the waitress, who looked even more put out than before.

"Hey, um, hey, if you had plans—" Neville began, not wanting to put anyone out, but Ron cut him off.

"Who, Liz? Nah. She's a mess. She's slept with half the cooks and most of the waitstaff, and I don't much fancy catching whatever she's carrying. Besides, I don't—um, she's annoying," he added. "I'd rather get a pint in some manky old pub with you. How about it? Corner booth, bad lighting? Unless you'd rather catch up with Malfoy. I'd understand if that were the case," said Ron teasingly.

Neville pretended to consider as Ron loosened his uniform necktie and donned his cloak.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in a corner booth with bad lighting at an unfamiliar and far too crowded Muggle pub. There was live music and a huge crowd, and Neville nursed his pint, staring at a Guinness advertisement tacked on the wall just above Ron's head. It wasn't his kind of place at all, especially when he was wearing his least comfortable (and therefore nicest) robes (or robes at all, really, though some of the Muggles were dressed even more strangely and no one seemed to notice), and all Neville really wanted to do was go home. It was nice to see Ron again, sure, but if it was too loud to talk, what was the point?

Neville had just begun to work up the courage to stand up and make let's get-out-of-here gestures, when he realised Ron was pointing towards the door, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

Neville smiled.

Outside, it was snowing. There was a fine white dust on the ground, and Ron and Neville scuffed a path to Ron's flat, just a block away. It was cold, too cold to really talk, and Neville was glad when they reached Ron's warm flat.

"Sorry about that," said Ron, when they were finally inside, "I didn’t know it'd be so loud. We can have a pint here, if you like, or tea, or, um—I mean, if you like."

Neville stood just inside the doorway of Ron's tiny, cluttered flat and grinned.

"Yeah. I'd like that."

Ron smiled back at him from the little galley kitchen. "Beer, then? Or tea? Ooh, or—" Ron rummaged in the cupboard above the sink, emerging with a dusty bottle. "Champagne? I mean, it is a special occasion, after all. Anyway, I've got half a case of this stuff left from Fred's wedding, and there's no way I'm drinking it all on my own." He grabbed two cups from a second cupboard and raised his eyebrows hopefully.

And so it wasn't long before Neville found himself sinking into the cushions of Ron's ancient sofa, his robes off, his tie askew, his shoes long since kicked under the coffee table, and finding out everything that had happened to their old schoolmates in the past few years. Ron seemed to be absolutely full of information.

"And what about Seamus?" Neville asked, holding out his coffee mug for more champagne, "D'you ever hear from him?"

"Oh, Seamus," Ron laughed, tipping the bottle—and it was only then, as Ron was pouring the dregs, that Neville realised they had even started a second bottle—in the general direction of Neville's mug, "He got some bird preggers back in Ireland. Found himself on the wrong end of her dad's wand, I guess, and now he's married with a houseful of brats." Ron laughed and set the empty bottle on the coffee table.

Neville tried to imagine Seamus as a husband and a father, and found he couldn't, and he told Ron so.

"Ah, you should see him, though," Ron said, smiling fondly, "He does all right. He was in London a few months ago with his wife—she's pretty, and younger—and his kids. We met up. Cute. Really nice family, y'know?" He sank back into the sofa and put his bare feet up on the coffee table, right next to the empty bottle.

"So what about you, then, Nev? You're the only one I don't know anything about. You've kept a pretty low profile. Well, you work for the Ministry, you said, and you're apparently not dating Malfoy—"

"Perish the thought," said Neville, and it sounded so like something his gran would say that he let out a sort of half-snort, half-giggle, which set Ron to laughing, and, after a moment, Neville laughed, too. But then Ron really started roaring, clutching his stomach and pulling his knees up to his chest.

"It wasn't that funny," Neville protested weakly, but he was smiling, and he bit his lip to keep another snorty-giggle from escaping.

Ron launched himself forward, taking Neville by surprise, and rested his head on Neville's shoulder. He turned his laughing blue eyes up at Neville.

"It really, really was," he said, his shoulders shaking, mirthful tears in his eyes. "I dunno why—but Nev, that was really funny."

"Cos we're drunk, that's why," Neville answered. "Cos we're drunk and reminiscing, and um—cos we're drunk, mostly, I think." He'd had the answer at one point, but it all came back to being drunk, didn't it?

Ron sat up abruptly and jabbed a finger into Neville's chest.

"You," he declared, "Are absolutely right. Ab-so-bloody-lutely. Hey," he said in a quieter tone, leaning forward, "Hey, Nev—"

Ron cut himself off, and his expression became suddenly serious.

Neville blinked. Ron was really close, and his breath was really warm, and he smelled of sweet champagne, and suddenly all Neville could hear besides the rush of blood in his ears was Malfoy's voice telling him that this was no time for—

"Hey," Ron repeated, and his voice had gone all raspy, and he put his big, warm hand on Neville's knee, one finger moving back and forth, and Neville twitched.

But he didn't move away.

And he wasn't sure why he didn't, but maybe it was because Ron was so close, and the room was so warm, and the hour was so late, and—

Ron kissed him.

Ron kissed him, and sure, Neville had been kissed before, but not like this, never like this, and it wasn't that it was an exceptionally well-executed kiss—Ron was drunk and clumsy and a bloke besides, and he took Neville completely by surprise—but it was…

Well, it was…

Um…

Neville couldn't think what it was, or what it wasn't, or much of anything at all, really, because Ron's warm, champagne-sticky mouth was on Neville's mouth, and both of Ron's hands were on Neville's thighs now, and Neville finally realised he should do something, and so he tentatively put his hands on Ron's shoulders, and—

Oh god, he kissed Ron.

He closed his eyes, and he kissed Ron.

And then he opened his eyes, and he pulled away, and he took his hands from Ron's shoulders. And he didn't know where to put his hands anymore, because Ron was everywhere.

And Ron's eyes opened, too, and he just looked at Neville for a moment, and Neville felt so guilty that he almost kissed Ron again, but he didn't, even though Ron's hands were still warm on his thighs, and Neville could feel ten fingers pressing, pressing, pressing.

"I'm sorry," whispered Neville, "I shouldn't have—I don't—I'm not—"

"I like you, Nev," Ron said quickly, softly, staring straight into Neville's eyes. "I always did." Ron paused. "Okay? Is it okay?"

And something—Ron's absolute sincerity, maybe, or maybe something else entirely, but something—something made it okay, then, in just that moment.

Okay to put trembling fingertips to Ron's freckled cheek, just the lightest of touches. Okay to nod, just the slightest movement of his head. Okay to lean forward so that his lips were just millimetres from Ron's, so that he could feel Ron's breath on his face.

Okay for Ron to kiss him again.

But Ron didn't.

He didn't move away. But he didn't kiss Neville.

"It's okay?" he asked again, and the tremulous note that Neville heard in Ron's voice was too much, too unexpected, and Neville nodded again.

"It's okay," he breathed.

And it was, it really, really was okay, despite Neville never having kissed a bloke before in his life, despite only ever having entertained the idea in that incredibly vague, now-nearly-forgotten, abstract, what-if sort of way, and despite the bloke he was kissing just happening to be one of his oldest friends, whom he hadn't seen in years, and despite so many things that should have made everything so very damned far from okay.

It was more than okay. It was good.

And for once, for once, Neville didn't let thinking and worrying get in the way, and he just kissed and was kissed, and he put his fingers in Ron's hair, and Ron moaned a little and shifted and somehow they were lying down, then, Ron half on top of Neville, and Neville was getting hard.

Hard from kissing Ron.

And with the realisation of his growing erection, worry should probably have crept back in, but Neville was too busy kissing Ron, and too busy being kissed by Ron, and too busy with his hands in Ron's warm, coarse hair, and too busy enjoying Ron's hands clutching his shoulders, to let it.

Until Ron stopped.

"Nev, wait," he whispered, and Neville's heart sank. He'd done something wrong, he knew it. Oh god, had Ron felt his erection?

Ron put his fingers between his mouth and Neville's, and Neville had the strangest urge to kiss them.

And he almost did. But Ron spoke.

"I like you too much, Nev," he whispered, his mouth so close, so close. "Don't wanna—don't wanna fuck things up, all right?" Neville nodded slowly, vaguely wondering if Ron was being sincere or if he was giving Neville the brush-off.

But—

"D'you like me?" Ron asked then, moving his fingers out of the way, and he sounded so young and so wistfully uncertain that they could have been back in the dormitory at school, and it would almost not have surprised Neville if he'd looked up to see Gryffindor-red curtains, for as surreal as everything already was.

"I don't even know you," Neville replied honestly. He didn't, really. It had been years, and Neville himself was a different person now, and so it followed that Ron must be, too.

Didn't it?

"I'm Ron," Ron said then, "I'm the same Ron."

"Only you kiss blokes now?" Neville felt his cheeks flame then—the first time he'd blushed all night, despite the kissing and the pressing and his ill-timed erection that wasn't going away—because really, what a stupid thing to say.

"I wanted to kiss blokes then," said Ron, "Back at school." He paused and seemed to consider, his eyes flicking downward for a moment, then back up to meet Neville's. He pressed his fingers to Neville's parted lips. "Mostly, I wanted to kiss you." And then it was Ron's turn to blush, and Neville put his fingertips to Ron's warm, freckled cheek, and then his whole hand, and he cupped Ron's face in his palm and pressed forward, and he kissed Ron again.

"But I don't kiss blokes," Neville said, pulling away just enough so that he could speak against Ron's lips.

"Okay," said Ron, and then they were kissing again.

And it was less frantic this time, now that they had got a few things cleared up. And it was maybe nicer than kissing a girl, because a girl would faff about and be coy, and Neville had always been a really straightforward sort of bloke who was never really sure what to do when a girl tipped her head away just a little too much for it to be a coincidence. But kissing Ron wasn't like that at all. Not at all. Kissing Ron was something entirely new, and Neville liked it. He liked Ron's firm mouth and Ron's probing tongue and Ron's wide, warm hands exploring his back, strong and confident, and he finally began to move his own hands along Ron's back, warm under his cotton work shirt. And he liked the way Ron hummed a little into the kiss when Neville moved his hands, and he really needed to stop liking it so much, because his erection was growing ever more insistent, and Ron was going to feel it sooner or later, and then what was going to happen? If Ron liked it, Neville didn't have any idea what to do about that, and if he didn't, well…

Neville didn't want to think about that.

And so he pulled away, again, his hands clasped behind Ron's damp neck.

"Maybe we should—" he said, at the same time that Ron said something else.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, go—" Neville still had his hands behind Ron's neck, and Ron still had his splayed on Neville's back, and they both kept stammering at each other, and the whole thing was just so bizarrely intimate that Neville grinned, and Ron grinned back, and then they both laughed.

"Maybe we should stop," Ron said then, and it was exactly what Neville had been going to say, and Neville knew that Ron wasn't saying it because Neville had done anything too much or too little or just plain wrong. He knew it from the way Ron's fingers trailed up his back to his neck to stroke the little hairs there, as if Ron knew that stopping what was they had to do, not necessarily what either of them wanted to do.

"Yeah," replied Neville, "It's…late." And he would have felt stupid then if Ron hadn't leaned his forehead against Neville's and nodded.

And asked if Neville would stay.

And Neville said yes without even thinking about it.

And so they moved off the couch, and the air in the room was cold, which Neville hadn't noticed until then because Ron was so warm. Neville was uncertain on his feet, and Ron wobbled a bit, too, and they held each other up until they reached Ron's bedroom, where they helped each other out of their clothes.

Ron touched Neville everywhere. He ran his hands unhesitatingly over Neville's skin, exploring as he helped Neville strip down to his pants.

"You can touch me," Ron murmured in his ear, leaning against him, as Neville unbuttoned his shirt.

Neville raised his hands to Ron's back, then, tentatively, and it was so broad and warm now that his shirt was gone, and Neville's hands shook a little, but once he'd touched Ron's skin, he couldn't stop running his hands all over as Ron struggled out of his trousers. His back and his shoulders were smooth, but Neville clutched protectively at Ron's arms when he felt the raised ridges there.

They fell onto the bed, still touching, and their legs tangled together when they had burrowed under the blankets, and they kissed, once, twice, but Neville had been right about how late it was, and both men were drunk and exhausted.

They slept, then, and when Neville woke in the very early morning, overheated and sober and thirsty, with a full bladder, it took him a moment to realise where he was and whose scarred, freckled arm was draped loosely over him from behind.

And remembering everything, all in one rush of memory, was a bit disconcerting, and then Ron moved closer and put his lips against Neville's neck and murmured "Nev", and it was all just too weird.

Neville slipped out from beneath Ron's arm, and the freezing air of the bedroom hit his sweat-damp skin, and he shivered. He spied a dressing gown hanging on a hook on the door, and, after a moment's hesitation, he wrapped himself in it and went into the bathroom.

He stayed in there for a long time, and when he emerged, the bed was empty.

He took a deep breath and pushed open the bedroom door.

And there was Ron, in the kitchen, humming to himself and making tea.

It was such an idyllic little domestic scene, Ron bustling about the tiny kitchen in his pants and his mismatched socks and an ancient T-shirt with a hole at the collar, adding milk to his tea and dipping a finger in to test the temperature, that Neville just had to watch for a moment. He was so used to living alone—had done ever since his gran died, years ago, and he'd spent so much time alone travelling for work besides—and it was nice to have someone there.

Even if "there" was a strange flat, and "someone" was an old schoolmate he'd nearly shagged the night before.

Still.

Ron looked up, then, and caught sight of Neville, and smiled a sleepy smile. He pushed a mug across the kitchen counter.

"Morning," he said, not a trace of regret or unease in his voice, "Tea?"

Neville was grateful for it, and he took the steaming mug and inhaled, closing his eyes.

"You look nice in that," came Ron's voice, and belatedly, Neville realised he was still wearing Ron's dressing gown. His instinct was to shrug it off immediately, but when he looked at Ron, he realised Ron wasn't teasing.

"Thanks," he said after a moment, "It's yours." And Neville cringed, but when Ron smiled at that, so did he. Ron came around the counter then and leaned against the wall, casually sipping from his own mug of tea.

"You all right, Nev?"

Neville bit his lower lip and stared into his mug and wondered. He hadn't thought yet that morning about whether he was all right or not.

And maybe the fact that he hadn't thought about it meant that—

"Yeah," he said, looking up and smiling at Ron, "I think I really am."

Ron moved closer and set his mug down, putting a big hand on Neville's shoulder.

"Good," he said solemnly. Then: "I'm glad you stayed. I was half afraid I'd wake up and you'd be gone."

Neville didn't know what to say to that, so he sipped his tea and just looked at Ron, who, after a moment, leaned down to drop a kiss on Neville's head, then spoke, his lips moving against Neville's hair.

"This is really okay?" Ron sounded incredulous.

Neville only nodded.

It was getting really hard to talk. Something was swelling inside him. His lungs were full of fire and his throat held a stone, and his stomach wouldn't stop dancing more and more violently the longer Ron left his face pressed against Neville's hair. And when Ron's arms went around him, Neville almost dropped his tea, but he somehow managed to find the counter and set it down and before he knew it his arms were around Ron and Ron was rocking him back and forth and kissing his head.

"Nev, Nev," Ron said, and Neville smiled.

"Do you want to…um, take a shower, or something? You can," said Ron, after a moment, lifting his head from Neville's, and though Neville knew Ron had meant alone, and hadn't meant anything by it, Neville's thoughts still turned that way, and he surprised even himself with what came out of his mouth.

"No," he said, turning his face into Ron's neck, "I want to go back to bed."

Ron stopped rocking then.

"You mean…?"

"Yeah. I do."

"You really want to—"

"Ron." Neville pulled back, just enough so he could see Ron's face. His voice was sharper than he'd intended it to be, and Ron shut his mouth abruptly. "I want to. I really—um, I really do. But don't ask me again, because I don't want to lose my nerve. I think that's about the worst thing that could happen right now, and, um, if I don't shut up, and if—if you don't shut up, it's going to happen. So let's not talk, and let's go."

And Ron grinned at that, and he took Neville's hand, and they went into the bedroom.

At first Neville thought that there could be nothing better than kissing Ron sober, clutching fistfuls of red hair, but then there was nothing better than Ron's fingers at his waist, parting his dressing gown and running just under the elastic of his pants, and then there was nothing better than doing the same thing with his own fingertips, and then they were naked together and Ron was above him and nothing could be compared to anything anymore because there was no time for comparisons, no room for thinking, just touching and kissing and Neville and Ron.

"Oh god," gasped Neville as Ron's fingers skipped past all those unimportant bits that girls seemed to like to waste so much time on, trailing across his thigh to encircle his cock. "Oh god, oh god—Ron, Ron—"

And Ron silenced him with a kiss, smashing his mouth onto Neville's, swallowing his words as he fisted Neville's cock and rubbed against Neville's thigh, leaking precome onto the seldom-touched skin there, and Neville choked and pushed up, up into Ron's hand, and as Ron's long fingers wound their way down, down, he wrested his mouth free of Ron's and gasped, "Stop."

Ron stopped. His fingers rested lightly on Neville's balls, and he lifted his head from Neville's shoulder and looked at him, concerned.

"I want to," Neville gasped before Ron could ask, "I want to, I really do. But I've never—I've never been, um—"

"You've never been fucked," said Ron, his blue, blue eyes unblinking. He trailed his fingertips lightly up Neville's cock and caressed the slit.

"That's, um—yeah," admitted Neville.

Ron grinned.

"Not a problem, Nev," he said, "I, um." He cocked his head to the side as if he were going over something in his head.

He dropped his head so that he could whisper in Neville's ear.

"I like that," he murmured, and Neville's eyes went wide. If Ron meant what Neville thought he—

"I like to be fucked," Ron said, and Neville closed his eyes tightly.

Oh god.

Oh god, yes. He could do this.

Neville took Ron's face in his hands, and he kissed him, and he told Ron he thought that would be all right. And Ron rolled them both over, then, so that Neville was on top, and they were still kissing, and Ron's hard prick rubbed against Neville's, and Neville thought that was a pretty damned nice feeling, but he'd be buggered if he knew what to do next.

…Well, except, no. Ron would be buggered.

But that was just the problem.

"I don't—I don't know how—" he murmured against Ron's sweaty neck, aroused and ashamed all at once. As if he should know—as if it were exactly like having sex with a woman, which Neville had been fortunate enough to do twice in his life so far, and which he thought maybe would be okay if he never did again, for how nice this was feeling. But Neville knew it wasn't the same. He knew it from instinct, from snippets of stories he'd heard, from the one time he'd explored his own arsehole.

"Show me," he said, then, grasping Ron's hand. "Show me. Please."

"Yes, god, yes," said Ron, and he groped around, kissing Neville all the while, then said, frantically, "Wand."

Neville had no idea where his wand could possibly be. Not after the events of the previous night, certainly.

"Your wand," he managed, pressing his cock down onto Ron's thigh, "Get yours."

But Ron didn't know where his was, either, and so they had to separate, and Neville gave a little moan when their bodies peeled apart and he was left with nothing but cold air and a fruitless wand hunt.

Ron found his wand first, stashed behind a picture of his family on the bureau, which he quickly slammed facedown, and they both dashed back to the bed, embracing, kissing, sighing.

"Show me," Neville said again, resuming where they had left off, trailing callused fingers up Ron's broad back.

And Ron handed the wand to him, wrapping long, freckled fingers around his.

"You have to press it, um," he said, and he guided Neville's hand between his legs. "Here," he said finally, and he let out a little hissing noise as the two of them pressed the wand forward, their fingers wrapped together around it. Neville could feel Ron's broad, flat fingertips caressing his own as the wand entered Ron, and he kissed the corners of Ron's mouth. And he repeated the unfamiliar spells after Ron, and the magic worked, it actually worked, and Ron exhaled.

It was weird.

Definitely.

But it was amazing.

"Fingers," gasped Ron then, "Please." And he grabbed Neville's hand and sucked Neville's forefinger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and staring at Neville all the while, and a jolt went right through Neville, straight to his cock, and he was even harder, then, which he hadn't thought possible. And Ron guided Neville's hand down to his arsehole and he spread his legs wide and put his knees up, and Neville paused, then Neville pressed, just lightly, and Ron moaned.

It was the single most erotic sound Neville had ever heard in his life.

And he wanted to hear it again.

So Neville pressed forward, a little harder, and then his finger was inside, and Ron was slick from the spell, and Neville hadn't known that anything could be so tight, and he had no idea how on earth he was going to fit his cock in there, but Ron didn't seem concerned, just asked for another finger, then another.

Ron's eyes crinkled closed and Neville had to kiss the little lines that appeared, then, and Ron told Neville that he was ready.

"And you know what to do, Nev," Ron assured him, and Neville thought he probably did, that this part, at least, vaguely resembled what it was like to be with a girl, and Ron guided Neville's cock to its destination, and—

Oh.

Oh no, no, no, it wasn't like being with a girl at all, it was hotter and tighter and everything, everything was different, and it wasn't just different, it was a bloke, it was Ron, and Neville wanted to collapse, but he couldn't stop moving.

"It's all right?" asked Ron, his breath coming in little puffs, and Neville thought that he should probably be the one asking that question, but he just answered Ron with a noise unlike any he thought he'd made before, and he sped his movements, revelling in the tightwetheat of Ron.

"You," he said then, "You—Ron—"

And he wasn't sure what he meant to say but that seemed all right, because Ron was just saying "Nev, Nev," over and over again, and then "Fuck," and trailing fingers over Neville's arse, and pumping his own cock frantically, and nothing, nothing, had ever felt so good, and Neville gave a little grunt, and then another, and he tried to say Ron's name but it was lost in translation as he spilled inside Ron and Ron writhed beneath him and everything was—

ohgod

—was as it should be, as Neville collapsed onto Ron, still inside him, and Ron groaned "Stay" and pulled, pulled, pulled, and then Neville felt the sticky spread of Ron's seed between their bodies, and Ron whispered "Nev", again, and.

There was no and.

There was just the most brilliant feeling of falling, then being caught by Ron's strong, safe arms, which wrapped around him tightly.

It felt like home.

Neville buried his face in Ron's neck, and Ron smelled so good. Neville thought maybe he could stay there forever, or at least all morning, his softened cock inside Ron, his mouth on Ron's sweat-slicked skin, his back encircled by Ron's arms.

But Ron shifted underneath him and said his name again and turned as best as Neville supposed he could under Neville's weight, and Neville turned, too, and when he did, he slipped out of Ron, breaking their connection.

Only not, because Ron's blue eyes were locked onto his brown ones and Ron kissed him lightly on his mouth, and in that instant Neville knew that regret and embarrassment were not options.

Not that he felt those things, anyway.

He couldn't feel much of anything at that moment, anything that had a name, at least; he was too consumed by everything that had happened.

And when Neville awoke, he realised he'd fallen asleep.

From the way the sun was shining in the window, still at the same angle, Neville knew it had only been for a little while, maybe thirty minutes or so. Ron was still naked beside him, snoring lightly. He'd apparently cleaned the come off both of them with his wand after Neville had passed out, and their limbs were tangled together, one of Ron's feet in between Neville's, the other leg slung over his knee. Neville blinked and stretched and yawned and Ron didn't move, so Neville sat up against the headboard and put a pillow in his lap. Ron snuffled a little beside him and flung an arm over the pillow.

Neville reached down and took Ron's hand in his, and after a moment, he kissed the palm.

How could everything feel so normal?

Was this what it was supposed to be like?

Neville kissed Ron's palm again, then turned the hand over and traced a silvery line up Ron's forearm, where it met another raised ridge, and another, and another.

"Brains," mumbled Ron, and Neville looked over to see that Ron was awake, now, too, his face half-buried in the pillow.

"I remember," said Neville. He stared at the scars for a moment longer.

"It's all right if I touch them?" he asked then, poised to do just that.

"Yeah," said Ron, "Okay."

Neville traced another scar, this one wider, thicker, as if that particular thought had been far more painful than any other. "Do they ever—?" he began, but Ron cut him off.

"They don't hurt, or anything. Used to. But not anymore. Hardly ever." He sat up against the headboard next to Neville.

"They're kind of…um, beautiful," said Neville hesitatingly.

Ron didn't say anything for a moment, just let Neville run his hands over his arm.

"I never thought so," he said quietly, and he took his arm away and kissed Neville on the cheek, bouncing out of bed.

"Let's not talk about this," he said in an unnaturally loud voice, "Let's have breakfast."

And so, shortly thereafter, Neville found himself wrapped once again in Ron's dressing gown ("Wear it," Ron had insisted, "Please?") and seated at Ron's scrubbed wood table with a full plate in front of him.

"This is a seriously good breakfast," said Neville, "Where did you learn to cook? At the restaurant?"

"Oh, god, no," Ron laughed, "My mum. She taught all of us, you know. I'm not the best at it—I can't cook anything fancy, but I get by."

"Well, it’s good," sad Neville. Better since I'm sharing it with you, he wanted to add, but he thought that might be a little much, even if it was true.

"Yeah," Ron continued, "I'm not too welcome in the kitchen at the restaurant except to pick up plates, really." He chuckled a little and tapped his fork on the rim of the plate.

"Why's that?" asked Neville around a mouthful of toast.

"I, um." said Ron. "I used to have this…thing. With one of the cooks. Um, the chef, actually."

"Roger?" asked Neville.

"Yeah—how'd you know?"

"I heard," said Neville. "Ah—about, I mean, that being his name, I mean. Not about you and—um."

"It's okay," laughed Ron, "We—it was over a long time ago. He was weird, anyway. Temper worse than—well, worse than mine, you know? And he always smelled of garlic no matter how much he washed, and he always had cornflour caked behind his bollocks." He said this so matter-of-factly that it took Neville a moment to laugh.

"You're joking—that's disgusting," he said.

"You're telling me," said Ron, winking.

They ate in companionable silence for a while. When Neville was finished, he pushed his plate aside, leaned forward, and took a deep breath.

"So you've done this before?"

"Done what?" asked Ron, sipping his pumpkin juice.

"This. Um. With blokes."

"Oh," said Ron, "Yeah. Couple of—I mean, not anything serious, not really. Took me too long to figure everything out, honestly. I haven't had enough time to do anything serious."

Neville wanted to ask if they were doing something serious, because he certainly didn't have a clue. Maybe it was different—faster, somehow—with another man than it would be with a woman, where you had to play all sorts of games and wait until she was ready for each step along the way, and you thought maybe she was waiting because somehow it was expected of her. Maybe none of that mattered with another bloke.

But Neville didn't ask, for Ron was up, suddenly, washing the breakfast dishes, and Neville thought that since they'd spent less than twenty-four hours together (besides their seven years living together, but Neville thought that probably didn’t count, even if—he remembered suddenly what Ron had said the night before—even if Ron had wanted to kiss him all those years ago) it probably wasn't the best time to ask.

Neville moved to the sink, but Ron wouldn't let him help with the dishes, and so he busied himself with picking up the clothes and shoes they had strewn over the floor the night before. He found his wand in his robes pocket and stuck it in the pocket of his—well, Ron's—dressing gown, then folded everything neatly and put it in a pile on the sofa.

He straightened up to see Ron watching him from the kitchen, leaning against the wall, his scarred arms folded over his chest, a crooked smile creasing his face.

"You're dead useful, Nev," he said, "I might have to keep you around." He bit his lip and ducked his head as his smile expanded, and something inside Neville did a funny little flip when Ron said that, and again when he ducked his head and turned away, but Neville swallowed it down, whatever it was.

"Do you want to take a shower now?" asked Ron from the kitchen, and Neville actually did, and he thought he might like some fresh clothes as well, especially as his were his best from dinner with Malfoy, and he didn't much fancy hanging around in them all day.

"Maybe I should go," he ventured, and Ron's head whipped around.

"Um," Ron said, regaining his composure, "O—okay."

"I mean, I can—"

"No. That's fine." Ron scratched at the back of his neck, looking down. "I don't have a floo."

"That's okay. I can Apparate. Um."

They stood in silence for a moment, then Neville picked up his stack of clothes from the sofa. "I should get dressed, then."

"You can wear that," Ron said, a little too quickly.

Neville blinked.

"I mean. If you're Apparating home."

Neville was.

And just before he Apparated home, Ron moved closer, haltingly.

"Can I—?" He put out a hand, but didn't quite touch Neville.

"I—oh. You don't—don’t have to ask, Ron."

And when Neville said his name, Ron smiled and stepped forward and put his hand around Neville's wrist and kissed him gently, then let go and stepped back.

"So go," he said, still smiling, "And, um—"

"Owl you?"

"That'd be nice."

Ron leaned forward again, a bit, and kissed him again, lightly, and Neville smiled.

"So, I suppose I'm not as straight as I thought, then," he said, blushing, just before he Apparated.

It was the worst Apparition Neville had ever performed since he'd got his licence. His mind was still back at Ron's place—he thought for a moment he might have splinched himself, but no parts appeared to be missing. He just hurt, a little, sort of a weird burning ache somewhere around his stomach.

Neville stood in his bedroom and sighed. He took off the dressing gown and held it to his face for a moment.

God, it smelled of Ron.

Well, of course it did. But to have that very intimate smell here, in his sterile, sparsely-decorated flat, which normally smelled of pine cleanser and potting soil, was jarring.

In a good way.

Neville hung the dressing gown on a hook in the bathroom and started the shower

Under the deliciously stinging spray, Neville went over everything that had happened. He couldn't believe half of it had happened, and, moreso, that he seemed to be okay with it all. He searched and searched for any part of him that felt bad or weird about what he'd—no, what they'd done—and found nothing.

"It was great," he declared out loud, his voice bouncing back at him from the tiled shower walls. "It was—it was fucking great!" he said, louder this time, unable to keep a stupid grin from his face.

When Neville exited the shower and towelled off, glowing from the water's heat and from his own elation, he heard a tapping on his kitchen window, but wrapped himself securely in Ron's dressing gown before he went to answer it.

It was an unfamiliar owl. His heart leapt a little, then fell when he saw the seal on the envelope.

Sodding Malfoy.

Part Two