Harry Potter is avoiding him. He can tell. He's had years of experience, and he can tell the difference between being avoided and being simply forgotten. And Harry Potter is most definitely avoiding Neville Longbottom.
And Harry wouldn't deny it, if asked. Truth be told, he's avoiding everybody. Well, everybody not named Hermione Granger or Ron Weasley. But - and Neville's heard rumours about this - he couldn't avoid them if he tried.
Neville doesn't mind, but it is rather curious. Three months ago, they were fighting Death Eaters - And doing a bloody fantastic job of it, Neville thinks, cleverly forgetting that they were very nearly killed - and now it's as if he doesn't exist. But maybe that's what happens when you're the Boy Who Lived - the longer you live, the more painful it gets. It just gets harder and harder to put up with people who still think of you as the Boy Who Lived.
Neville has never had the courage to tell him that he doesn't, and hasn't for a very long time.
*
Harry sits directly across from him at lunch on a boring Thursday - between History of Magic and Divination - and he hasn't done that since third year. It might be on purpose, but it isn't, which Neville finds out as he is dutifully ignored.
He can't help but notice how Harry's foot bounces under the table. He hasn't looked this nervous since his first Potions class with Snape, and Neville remembers it.
*
It's late, and all Neville wants to do is forget about that detention, the essay due in two days, and the Howler he's sure to get from his Gran for not writing as much as he said he would. And he does manage to forget, but now he has much greater things to worry about.
Harry looks him in the eye, and doesn't flinch. He has practised this speech, Neville can tell, and he's touched. That Harry would think to prepare something. For him. If it were him - and, ohMerlin, it could have been - he would have blurted it out at the first opportunity. Harry knows better.
"Alright, Neville?"
Neville shrugs. He doesn't trust his vocal chords, and he doesn't trust his legs much longer, so he slides to the floor, leans against the cool, hard wall, before he falls over and makes an ass out of himself.
"Neville?"
"Look, I -" he's speaking before he realises he can "- just need a little time, alright?"
Harry nods. "Yeah, alright. I - goodnight, Neville."
And he's off down the corridor, up the stairs, and Neville listens to his footsteps for as long as he can, like banging on piano keys and listening to the air reverberate for minutes afterward. He can almost hear Harry whisper the password.
He listens, and as soon as he hears the portrait hinge open, then closed, he is on all fours and thowing up.
*
He never thought it would ever happen, but Neville Longbottom is avoiding Harry Potter. Harry is clearly trying to catch his eye over breakfast the next morning, and Neville feels sort of bad, but it's only been a few hours, and he doesn't want to think about anything other than the detention he has tonight, and that essay due tomorrow, and the Howler in front of his face.
*
"Are you alright Neville?"
It's Ginny Weasley, and if anyone were to notice anything wrong with him, it would have to be her.
"Yes," he mumbles into 999 Plants You will Never Hear Of Again.
"Oh. Because you look -" hands wringing "- distraught."
He looks up. "Do I?"
She nods, a little hesitant.
"Oh. I didn't realise."
She pretty much leaves him alone after that.
*
There is something difficult and mind blowing about knowing that maybe you aren't who you're supposed to be. Or maybe you are. But there is no absolute way of telling that things turned out for the best.
Neville would like to think so. He knows Harry is brave, and noble, and everything the Sorting Hat's ever said about Godric Gryffindor. (And this only makes him wonder if the Hat only put him in Gryffindor because he could have been the Boy Who Lived, but sorry, you aren't, but here's a consolation prize.)
He knows that Harry, more than Neville, can face what is coming, the inevitable.
But he wishes, maybe, he could switch places. Because Harry's parents didn't have to die, and Harry didn't have to grow up with those awful Muggles he's only glimpsed at King's Cross, and they do look awful. Neville, at least, had his Gran, and his Great Uncle Algie. Who did Harry have?
"No one," he whispers into the dark of the boys' dormitory, when he knows everyone else is asleep. "No one at all."
It was then and there that he decided that he would always be there, for Harry, just like Hermione and Ron. He could help with their little adventures, and then their bigger ones, and then the biggest one of all.
He owed Harry at least that, if he couldn't switch lives with him.
*
He woke up in the middle of the night, and Harry's bed was empty. Knowing he would never get back to sleep, he crept into the common room, and found Harry Potter sitting at a table, writing his Potions essay. He slipped into the chair across from him without saying a word.
Harry continued writing, dotted the i's and crossed the t's, then looked up at Neville, and smiled. It was hollow, and the fire cast deep shadows, and Harry looked old, so old.
Pressing his lips together and bracing himself for whatever would come next, he reached across the table and squeezed Harry's hand. He hoped that Harry would understand what it meant.
The smile lessened, and now Harry just looked sad.
"Thank you, Neville."
"Anytime, mate."