OH-EM-GEE, MY BEE-EFF-EFF CHIYO THYRA! I'm back! And this time with some Neville goodness. XD
I'm uber excited about this story -- it's definitely my longest chapter to date and I really put a lot into this. I hope you guys enjoy it...
DISCLAIMER: Oh, I don't own anything. Seriously. JK owns it all. But I pwn her so it's okay. XD
Be Still My Heart
Somewhere in the rapidly beating heart of the city of London – where a great number of muggles walk the streets completely ignorant of magic – nestled deep in a king-sized bed, was the oddly shaped form of a man. Lying underneath a ragged midnight blue comforter, he was almost indistinguishable from the pillows that surrounded him. The man, who could be heard lightly snoring despite the sound-muffling barrier provided by his bedding, was visibly unconscious to the lively world around him. From the mess of shaggy brown hair sprawled against his light blue pillow case, all the way down to the large sock-covered feet peeking out at the foot of the bed, it was obvious to anyone who would look upon him that he was completely unaware of anything going on outside his small one-bedroom flat. This wasn't just any oblivious man, though, he was, in fact, an oblivious wizard. A magic man, as it were. And this wizard's name was Neville Longbottom.
Often at the sound of this name, great numbers of witches and wizards became teary-eyed. Not because they felt sympathy for the Neville Longbottom that was an innocent, stumbling boy with poor magical ability, but because they know and respect him as the brave, competent wizard responsible for aiding Harry Potter in the vanquishing of the Dark Lord – for good. After all, if not for Neville, the last horocrux would never have been destroyed and Voldemort would have won.
More often than not, an accomplishment such as this would go unforgotten and be brought up incessantly by the magical population for the rest of all time; however, since the incident at Hogwarts only years ago, Neville had made it perfectly clear that he wanted anything but the fame. He had always been a shy, nervous boy and in the years that had passed, he had become a calm man of no less bashfulness.
And now the same introverted man lay snug in his lonely, oversized bed – dreaming of her.
After his first dream, he had simply thought he was being nostalgic; missing all of his friends from Hogwarts – trying to forget how lonely he was now. But as the dream kept occurring, he came to realize that it revolved solely around her; a fact didn't surprise him in the least. He had always been in love with her.
In a secret kind of love, that he kept from the world.
As the glowing red numbers of the clock on the nightstand flashed 11:11 AM, Neville was suddenly awoken by the sound of a jumbled radio signal emitting from the speakers. "Unbreak my heart; Say you love me again," the garbled voice of Toni Braxton sang loudly. Despite the static, he heard the words clearly and groaned.
In the years he spent with Hannah, he had come to learn that it was her favorite song. And now, he couldn't help but realize the painful irony in the situation. Hannah's song had jarred him from her dream.
Throwing a long, pale arm out in slight irritation at both the rude awakening and the depressing song, he sent the alarm clock skidding off the bedside table and into the floor.
As the sound from the clock came to an abrupt halt, a triumphant and muffled chuckle came from underneath the ragged comforter. Neville had never liked that clock anyhow – in fact, he had only kept it because it had been a gift from Hermione. Truthfully, he was more than happy to see it go.
After a few moments of silent celebration about the demise of the alarm clock, he rolled over with a low groan and slowly sat up, his comforter falling to rest on the bed. Rubbing his eyes, he blinked rapidly to adjust them to the light that instantly flooded them.
Glancing down at his now busted clock on the floor of his bedroom, Neville frowned. If the cursed thing had only given him five more minutes, he might have finished the dream – finally. Then, even if he would never know in real life, he would at least know how her lips felt in his dream.
"Almost," he croaked quietly, placing his head in his hands. But then again, even he knew "almost" only counted in exploding snaps and some Yankee game called "horseshoes."
With a sigh, he lifted his head and looked out the window, where the sun was fighting through the clouds to stream in. It was a very rare day in London when the sun was even visible at all, so he took time to appreciate the few bright rays that had penetrated the dark clouds that usually loomed above the city.
After moments of sitting in silence and staring absent mindedly at the rays of light that just barely managed to shine on his plants on the window ledge, Neville finally left the warm comfort of his bed, shuffling noiselessly into the chilly bathroom.
As he passed the mirror above the sink, he paused briefly to observe the dark scruff that covered his face. Placing a hand on his chin, he felt the harsh hairs there that scratched the skin of his fingers lightly. The fact that he hadn't shaved in a week was evident, but none of the people at work had mentioned it to him.
In fact, not many people spoke to him at all now-a-days.
Not since the day of Hannah's funeral anyway.
Probably because they assumed he was still mourning her death. After all, he had always been a sensitive boy and it would only stand to reason he would also be a sensitive man. And if he were a sensitive man, he would obviously still need time to grieve. So, they went along their daily activities not bothering to stop and speak – trying to allow him to focus on his grieving. But even without them, Neville's mind was always somewhere else.
Truthfully, that should've been the reason his mind was in a constant state of distraction – the passing of his "dearly beloved" wife. But the truth of the matter was that she had been at Hannah's funeral. And she had looked so beautiful in her cerulean robes that he had forgotten to mourn – at least for the death of his wife. In fact, the only grief he felt that day was the sorrow of not having her in his life.
Of course he had felt horrible about it. His wife was dead and all he could think about was another woman. It was almost infidelity. Despite this though, he couldn't help but mentally justify his actions. He had loved her for forever; in a deep, almost unfortunate way. He had never felt that way about Hannah.
And as she stood off to the side during the viewing, her blue-grey eyes staring blankly at the portraits of Hannah that adorned the walls, many of the older witches who were present took time to gossip about her.
One elderly witch in particular felt it necessary to remark on the color of her robes.
"You would think she would have respect for the dead," she muttered to one of her friends, who looked as if she was two hops and a skip away from dying herself.
Neville had been particularly irritated by that comment. She was far too beautiful to wear any color other than blue – even if it was a funeral.
Even now, he was still irked about the comment and mentally made a note to hunt down his great aunt at the next family reunion.
Sighing softly, he reached down and turned on the faucet. He had no time left to linger on memories like that.
Grabbing the soap from its tray in the shower, he began to thoroughly wash his face. Though not many people other than Hannah knew, Neville Longbottom was a stickler for hygiene. He not only brushed his teeth impulsively, but he found himself constantly washing his hands and face.
After he felt that his face was clean enough, he reached for the hand towel that usually hung just to his right and found it to be missing.
Cursing the fact that he had forgotten to do his laundry the night before, he jerked his white shirt over his head and dried his face.
As he turned to leave the bathroom, he threw his shirt into the laundry bin by the door.
When he returned to his room, he grudgingly went over to his closet and pulled out what he intended to wear. This was a fairly simple task for him since most of what he owned was similar – if not exactly the same.
After a few moments and quite a bit of stumbling on his part, Neville was dressed.
Walking to the kitchen, he saw that he had left little time for any sort of breakfast, so he quickly grabbed a bottle of water – along with his jacket and keys – and walked out the door. Into the world, not knowing that the day would bring him much more than he bargained for.
Suspenseful? I hope so.
Leave reviews. I'll love you.
And check out Chiyo Thyra's new story: The Dawning of a New Evil; it's gonna kick ass.
Xo. Melly