Warning: Eventual Neville/Draco, as in slash.

Reversal- Chapter 1

Post-war, euphoria overtook the young and celebrations erupted in a haze of excitement and drunkenness. There were parties, various parties. By night, the Hogwarts grounds were illuminated with floating lights that changed colour to the beat of the music. Firewhiskey in abundance, barely graduated wizards danced throughout the night, eyes glistening with excitement. Having already reached adulthood in the tumultuous experiences of their lives, the golden trio discovered frivolity. They launched themselves into the life of light-heartedness that had been owed to them since they were fourteen. And the world followed suit.

Ron and Hermione, high on fulfilled passion, married drunkenly under the floating lights in a ceremony that was highly public. They giggled and kissed and clutched hands throughout. Luna Lovegood supplied the decorations. Neville put his Herbology skills to recreational use and handed out joints made from some narcotic herb he'd discovered. Too drunk to be dubious or to see Neville's mischievous, unabashed grin, classmates unknowingly allowed themselves to become intoxicated. Harry and Ginny blended into the background of all of this, inexplicably intertwined and unable to tear their gazes away from one another.

For three days this madness lasted, and it ended with them mostly passed out on the ground, faces to the sky. Hangovers brought the wave of sadness from remembering the comrades lost, and they drifted lethargically home, ready to mourn.

For the implicated, there was no such celebration. Instead, the families of the Dark Side retreated to their homes, sickened by the sight of their heritages and dreading the imminent, deserved persecution. The Malfoys returned to the ruined Manor that was now haunted with the screams of blood-traitors and muggles that had lost their lives to torture. Hours later they departed for their summer home in France.

He expected change. He thought the fear, the helplessness his father had felt, treated like a slave at Voldemort's every beck and call, would've shocked Lucius into renouncing ideologies that were long outdated. Instead, Draco gritted his teeth and bore his father's feverish ramblings. Still purebloods, we still have pride. And his voice that now trembled occasionally with paranoia resounded over and over in Draco's head. There were times when he wanted to scream at him, and Narcissa's tightened grip on his hand is the only thing that can stop him.

'Look at the life you provided for us!'

Unable to express himself, his anger sometimes sent him almost blind. His palms bled from digging his nails in. He thought he would sometimes die, as his heart thundered so powerfully in his chest with rage.

It lasted almost a month. The final straw was the marriage contract that Lucius presented to him on his birthday. A psychotic smile was fixed on Lucius' face. Draco looked to his mother, sobbing weakly in the doorway. He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.

"I'll be back for mother" he stated.

Lucius' grin slid from his face as Draco Apparated to London.

He was not received welcomingly in London. Landlords' expressions alternated between distrust and disgust, and sometimes embodied a curious mix of the two. In the end, he settled on a dingy apartment in Knockturn Alley. The landlord was this time indifferent, and told him he'll halve the rent if he cleaned the shop too. He barely managed to prevent a disgusted expression himself.

In the few weeks preceding his initial rent payment, he struggled to find a job. Eventually, he swallowed his pride and accepted his landlord's offer, and was offered a job in the kitchen of a bar at the far end of Diagon Alley. The owner stressed that he would be out if a single patron found out that he worked there. Shockingly, Malfoy discovered he had a talent for cleaning spells.

He awoke one day to an owl dropping court summons on his chest. The letter told him to present himself on August 15th at the Ministry to be questioned on his role in the war. Another leaden weight settled on his stomach.

He struggled to adjust to the new lifestyle and it took him a good month to find the courage to walk Diagon Alley. In working robes and with a neutral, diminished expression, he went largely unnoticed. He paused at the window of Flourish and Blotts and felts his stomach plummet.

The Whole Truth by Harry Potter

Harry Potter, hero of our times and saviour of muggles, gives the story of the epic final battle of Hogwarts in his own words!

Pre-order now to be the first of your friends to have the whole story.

The shop window was plastered in these posters from ceiling to floor. He stared absentmindedly into Potter's beaming face however and was rooted to the spot with dread. This book would once and for all seal his family's fate. They were going to be hated for a long time. From his father and the diary, to Draco's attempted murder of Dumbledore, he doubted that anything Potter wrote would paint his family favourably. Five minutes later, he walked into the shop and placed his order for a copy, ignoring with great effort the scandalised look of the owner. If his family was going down, he wanted to know exactly what the world would be saying about them.

Dazed, still, he collided in the doorway with a large, hurried figure. They both fell, a tangle of limbs and books. Draco sputtered his apologies and frantically scrambled to collect the books scattered on the ground.

"Hey, hey, don't worry about it" the figure stated, face downcast, hidden. Draco instantly recognised the low, Yorkshire voice and looked up, startled.

Longbottom!

Only months ago he would have spat this out derisively and kicked him on the way out of the door. Instead, he was dumbstruck, dreading Neville's moment of realisation.

Neville looked up and his eyes widened in surprise.

"Malfoy?" He stated with his expression suddenly guarded. The books Draco had just picked up were hastily taken from his grasp.

"Longbottom," He said, his tone stiff with formality. He stepped to the side to let Neville pass.

"Are you, um, how are your… uh," Neville struggled uncomfortably for something to say. Draco's lack of eye contact signalled that he wasn't in the mood for small talk.

A silence followed that appeared to stretch for a year. Draco tried to glare impatiently but was startled to see sudden curiosity in Neville's eyes.

"Harry, uh, told us what your mother did," Neville started, looking panicked when Draco's face began to twist in rage, "He wants to thank her…"

He trailed off at the look of utter bewilderment on Draco's face.

"What are you on about, Longbottom?" he demanded irritably.

"Um, nothing," he glanced down, noticing the pre-order receipt in Draco's hand. Neville suddenly smiled, "You'll just have to read that and see."

Talking utter nonsense as usual.

"Well, bye," Neville muttered, discomfort clear from his posture.

Draco stormed back to his flat, enraged that Longbottom had had the cheek to bring his mother up so casually, like some little titbit of the latest gossip. He paced his room, almost screwed up his receipt several times. He collapsed onto his bed sometime later, suppressing tears. He felt as though he was bleeding from a wound that was supposed to have healed. His mother's face was in his thoughts now, and he yearned to know that she was safe.

Dear Mother,

I should have written much sooner. I'm safe. I have an actual job.

Potter's written this book and apparently we're in it. Well, of course we're in it. Just giving you fair warning that there will probably be some backlash towards us. Thing is, Longbottom was spouting some nonsense about Potter wanting to thank you. Is there something you aren't telling me? It's probably nothing. Longbottom is an idiot and was probably trying to provoke me.

I miss you.

Draco

"You have quite an enterprise here," George stated, perusing the bags of the tobacco-like substance on Neville's desk, "I'll buy some stock for the shop but you know it's not going to be legal for long,"

Neville shrugged.

"It'll be fun while it lasts," he muttered, squinting due to the sunlight that was streaming through his kitchen window. He didn't usually do business in his bathrobe, but his hangover had decided his choice of clothes for the day. Not that George seemed too fussed. Clearly joke shop owners weren't the most professional of people. George grinned at Neville's prolonged yawns before a more sober, thoughtful look appeared.

"Is it addictive?"

"What? Uh, no idea... I've been smoking it for months and I'm fine."

George wasn't usually the type to judge, but he wasn't reassured. Neville looked highly bored and restless. He left and hour or so later, having bought a fair amount of it regardless and decided it would probably be better to sell it all on to Lee Jordan.

Neville stood outside his flat, smoking a freshly rolled joint and pacing slightly. Since the war had finished, he'd been given a research grant from the British Institute of Herbology, and would be returning to a restored Hogwarts to start studying under Professor Sprout. He was certain that recreational herb use wasn't one of her research priorities.

Currently, Neville was relaxing in this fairly cushy bachelor pad of his, earning a tidy wage from magazine and newspaper interviews.

Rita Skeeter, having spotted an emerging young and carefree market, had launched a new magazine that promised to tell all on the more recent wizarding world celebrities. Of course, it ended up being more popular with the average middle-aged witch, and even had a column written by Gilderoy Lockhart. Yet, if someone was willing to give him a small fortune in Galleons to put his face in a magazine he wasn't going to object. In fact, it had made him pretty popular with the ladies and he had become quite the eligible bachelor.

There were other benefits too. Now that it was once again safe to stay out all night, the nightlife had once again exploded in Diagon Alley, and he found himself getting free entry and drinks at various places. A benefit that he and pretty much all of his Gryffindor classmates were given. The time to go wild, to celebrate and let loose was now if ever. In two months exactly, he would be off to Hogwarts to start to build a career for himself.

Neville returned to his room, grimaced at the deeply alcoholic scent that greeted him and climbed back into bed. He slept the rest of the day away and was awoken harshly by yelling outside his building. He groaned and rolled over, pressing the pillow over his ears. There was a large bang and he growled in annoyance. Stumbling to the window, he was ready to shout when he saw a group of wizards he didn't know hurrying away into the darkness. A figure slumped against the wall of the alleyway. The man's hair glinted in the artificial light of the street lamp.

Is that-?

Neville rushed out to help the stranger. His face was bloody, hair mussed and he was clutching at his stomach and groping for his wand. He realised with a deep twinge of pity that it was Draco Malfoy. Beaten almost unconscious and dribbling blood over his shirt, Draco lifted his head up with great effort. Without thinking, Neville was at his side. He lifted him with strong arms and held him as he coughed blood on to the pavement. Voice hoarse with pain, Draco began to talk;

"Piss off, Longbottom," he growled, "I can take care of myself."

Neville laughed humourlessly. Malfoy hadn't even the strength to push himself away and therefore had to relent. It took him a while, but he managed to carry Malfoy inside to the couch. He watched Malfoy sink into it.

"You have to take your shirt off," Neville murmured, as he went to collect salves from his bathroom. Stubbornly, Malfoy wasn't cooperating and Neville had to undress him, trying not to gasp in despair as the bruises on his chest were revealed. Neville attempted to run his fingers over the worst of it, but stopped abruptly when Draco moaned in pain and batted Neville's hand away to clutch at his ribs. Neville passed Draco the discarded shirt.

"Bite down on that," Neville demanded, and began despite Draco's protests to rub the salves firmly into his chest. It took a while, and it took much of Neville's resolve not to stop due to Malfoy's sharp intakes of breath. And fifteen minutes later he was done, and he stumbled over to his fire. He grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and was off. Malfoy blanched, unable to make out where Neville had said he was going. He was too weak to move from his current position. An overwhelming surge of drowsiness overtook him and his world was becoming patchy with blackness. He was surely dreaming; Granger had just stepped out of the fireplace with Neville. The last thing he saw before slipping out of consciousness was Granger raising her wand…

Got to fight, stupid Granger…

He awoke two hours later; Neville's warm hand was placed over his forehead. He blinked drowsily, noticing that his head was no longer in pain and that he could breathe easily again. His ribs still twinged painfully. He attempted to stand but Neville pushed him back down.

"What-" Malfoy started.

"Drink this," Neville interrupted, brandishing a tumbler of firewhiskey in his face. He gave him another glass after the first.

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

"Better to be drunk on alcohol than pain," Neville muttered. "I thought it'd make you friendlier."

"Was Granger… here?" he asked.

"Uh yeah. I don't know many healing spells and sometimes I get them wrong," Malfoy snorted, "but um…"

After a few moments;

"Thank you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Neville light what looks to be a cigarette with shaking hands. He made the effort to raise his eyebrows. They don't seem to be responding.

"When's your trial?" Neville asked, fixated with the ceiling.

"15th, August 15th," he murmured, and coughed.

"You won't be going to Azkaban," Neville revealed, and tried to glance reassuringly at Draco.

"But my mother…?"

"Of course not-" Neville said incredulously, then paused at Draco's hostile gaze, "Do you honestly not… know?"

He took the chilly silence as a no.

"She pretended to Voldemort that Harry was dead," he started, "because he told her that you were still alive."

Draco's sense of grief of having to leave his mother behind had reared again in the pit of his stomach. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"So, really it's thanks to you that… Harry was able to defeat him…"

The pain in Draco's eyes silenced Neville. He passed his joint to Draco, and he started to smoke, silently. Neville distracted himself from the tears streaming down Draco's face by rolling another.

"Sometimes I wake up and for a moment none of it happened,"

It had gotten late, and they'd both ended up high. This was the highest Neville had been since the celebrations. Draco had fallen asleep and he'd carried him upstairs to the spare bedroom. He couldn't tear himself away. Previously an object of such hatred yet Draco had an ethereal, wasted beauty to him. He was ghostly in the moonlight.

"Keep an eye on him," Hermione had ordered.

And yes, that, Neville felt, was a good enough excuse for lying on the bed next to him and watching to check that he doesn't stop breathing.

Draco had awoken, eyes alight, and stated those words. And then he spoke until dawn. There were regrets, and pain. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Neville placed a finger to Draco's lips.

"Why are you so fucking nice?" Draco hissed at him, the moment Neville awoke.

"Somebody is not a morning person." Neville retorted in the same grouchy tone as Draco.

The sunlight was blinding and Draco's skin looked translucent. He glared.

"Okay, so we decided you're staying here until your hearing. I can go get your stuff from your flat and tell your landlord…"

"Why would I want to stay with you?" Draco hissed. He hated this role reversal. He felt helpless, trapped. Surely this was all some ridiculous ploy for revenge.

"You won't get attacked if you're living here."

"I don't need your protection," he spat.

"Leave then," Nevilled stated, smirking sadly.

Of course, he couldn't stand on his own, although this was definitely, most certainly, Granger's fault. Granger had bewitched him so he would have to accept Longbottom's hospitality, and then he would see what a horrible evil person he himself had been all of his life.

When Neville returned, he brought a reply from his mother and Potter's book. He tore the envelope apart as energetically as his injuries allowed.

Draco,

You should have contacted me earlier! I have been worried sick. Your father and I will be in London from August 5th. I expect to see you then. I can then talk to you about Longbottom's claims.

Your father is still livid. He has resorted to his old ways of relieving stress. I can't say much here.

I love you,

Mother

Draco's proceeding days of recovery in bed were Hell for him. Guilt was devouring his insides. He had left his mother with his monster of a father, and he had taken his anger out on her. He fretted for her safety.

Neville kept bringing him that ridiculous drug he was smoking. For Draco, it was a gamble what effect he would get. Sometimes, it made him parentless. Every worry would dissipate, and if he were the type to giggle, he would happily have done so the entire night. Yet sometimes, the guilt inflated to more that he could handle and he would be rendered silent by the lump in his throat. Neville would ramble worriedly, desperate to get Draco to respond.

A week later Draco could stand again, and Neville returned to the flat. Draco, pacing like a madman, muttered to himself. He paused to watch Neville stumble over to the kitchen and grow increasingly aggravated when he couldn't find a glass.

"I'm leaving," Draco said.

Neville ignored him. They hadn't actually conversed since the night he had been beaten. Not soberly, anyway. And he wondered if the drug made Neville forget how much he hated him.

"Have you seen…" Neville started, glaring distrustfully, "the firewhiskey?"

Draco shook his head, suddenly weary of the state Neville was in.

"Maybe you've already had enou- "

This observation was muffled by Neville throwing the glass in annoyance. It shattered in the sink. Habitually, Draco's hand gripped the wand in his pocket, and he stepped back.

"I think you should calm down."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Neville yelled. He turned to push Draco into the table. There was brief struggle in which Draco, again, had dropped his wand. Neville's hands were clutching the front of Draco's shirt; his face was contorted in anger.

Then the colour drained from his face. His grip slackened and Draco pulled himself away.

"Sorry," Neville murmured, a drunken sadness overcoming his features.

Draco glowered. All of his life, he always seemed to be surrounded by alcoholics, by idiots that were seemingly unable to cope with life by themselves. He was aggravated and opened his mouth to speak.

"You're pathetic, Longbottom, always have been." Draco hissed, relishing in the familiar feeling of power that overcame him with the statement. He could do this- berate and bully Longbottom until he cracked.

Yet Neville didn't appear to be listening. He'd reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty gum wrapper. He was fixated.

"I saw my parents today," he stated. Draco instantly stopped; guilt gripped once more at his insides.

Neville seemed numb then, lost for a purpose. Draco didn't know what to say, but he thought that he could return a certain favour to him and retreated momentarily upstairs. When he returned, he passed and already lit joint to Neville. Their eyes met for a second.

This was wrong. In the long run, this avoidance would catch up with the both of them. Yet it was comfort. Something Draco was newly deprived of; something Neville thought would have come more easily after it all.

Thanks for reading :)