neville is still soft, soft skin, soft eyes. harry thinks he'll always be. neville's golden, though, from the sun and the greenhouses. it embarrassed him, of course, neville's always embarrassed and at first it was blistered red, burning pink. it peeled away like muggle skin does at the seaside, since neville didn't dare attempt the healing potion, not even after all this time.
now they're lying together, harry has one hand on neville's belly, sneaking under his shirt while the fingers of the other hand are tracing patterns on neville's arms. harry thinks if he tried he could rub away the gold with his thumb, rub away the porcelain underneath, down to the rich earth hiding away, fertile with the oldest magic, the creation that saved them. harry hums something ancient, and neville turns to him, sleepy-eyed, kisses him on the forehead, and asks him not what he was thinking.
now they're lying together, harry has one hand on neville's belly, sneaking under his shirt while the fingers of the other hand are tracing patterns on neville's arms. harry thinks if he tried he could rub away the gold with his thumb, rub away the porcelain underneath, down to the rich earth hiding away, fertile with the oldest magic, the creation that saved them. harry hums something ancient, and neville turns to him, sleepy-eyed, kisses him on the forehead, and asks him not what he was thinking.