Title: To Be Noticed

Author: tealeaf523

Pairing: Neville/Harry

Rating: M

Length: ~3000

Summary: So, all right, maybe Neville was a bit… oblivious to his newfound status as 'shagworthy', but he was focused on other things. Like the fact that Harry Potter had become quite the looker since… well, since always, but that wasn't the point. The thing was: he noticed. And noticing was not something Neville was quite used to, yet."

Author's Note: This was originally written fore speed_pr0n on LJ, but then I realized I was a week late. Anyway, I chose the word prompt "wiggle" but was mostly inspired by this picture, 9, and how it might've come about.

Warnings: slash, awkwardness, not-so-speedy speed pr0n

Disclaimer: These characters are the property of J. K. Rowling. I've just taken them out to play.

~-~

It was well known about Hogwarts School that Neville Longbottom had become quite the looker since last year.

Tall and husky, Neville towered over his peers even when slouching, and thus may have once or twice been categorized as awkward. But the general consensus nowadays was, "Blimey, when did that happen?"

(Now, if only Neville Longbottom would get his head out of the greenhouse soil for a moment long enough to notice that he was being noticed.)

Neville had lots of things on his mind, though, like… when his next Muggle Studies essay was due, or when he'd be getting his allowance from Gram, or when he'd have enough time out of his busy, Herbology-infested day to go down to Hogsmeade to buy new robes.

Maybe he'd get a bonus from Gram and save a few knuts for new pants, too.

So, all right, maybe Neville was a bit… oblivious to his newfound status as 'shagworthy', but he was focused on other things.

Like the fact that Harry Potter had become quite the looker since… well, since always, but that wasn't the point.

The thing was: he noticed. And noticing was not something Neville was quite used to, yet.

It had happened suddenly, on the way to Hogwarts in his (second) seventh year, when he'd been sitting with Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Luna and everyone'd gone to change into their robes and suddenly, there the Saviour of the Wizarding World was, slipping out of his t-shirt and revealing that slim, scarred back as he reached for his trunk and his denims were tight and they hugged his bum so prettily as he wiggled to and fro with the motion of the train and Neville had stared hopelessly, with ringing in his ears and too-tight trousers, as he fumbled for his own, too-short robes and—

Neville tried not to think about it too much. Because, really, fantasizing about one of your roommates was never a good thing. Especially if he slept in the bed next to yours. And he fancied girls.

Neville did agree that Ginny was a lovely girl, but she had… long, red hair, and such a high-pitched voice, and—and tits.

Really, he didn't hate Ginny. She was… nice. But she had something he wanted.

Someone he'd never have.

This often led to Neville's stints of slumping over his morning porridge, or his luncheon soup, or his evening pudding, feeling morose and looking every bit the brooding teenager.

The girls liked this, see; but he was always too busy staring into his [insert meal here] to notice.

Or being unceremoniously startled out of his seat and onto the floor as an adorable—albeit angry—Harry Potter slammed some large textbook onto the table in a rage, upsetting the salad and a tiny first-year, as was happening now.

"Bloody women," Harry growled as he pulled a jug of pumpkin juice to him and sloshed it carelessly into his goblet. "Sorry, Neville."

Neville stood quickly, brushing the imaginary dirt from his bum and slipping back into his seat, smiling uncertainly. "S'alright… What's wrong?"

Harry looked simultaneously disappointed and relieved. After a pause, he said in a breath, "I broke it off with Ginny."

Trying desperately not to sound ecstatic, Neville leaned an elbow on the table and frowned. "Oh."

Alright, terribly unhelpful, but better than "FANTASTIC!!!"

"Yeah." Harry nodded to himself, staring at the steamed carrots, brow furrowed. "Should've done it a while ago."

Neville couldn't have said it better himself.

It was a week or two later when Neville happened upon Harry again while hanging about in the library, minding his own business, investigating parasitic plants for his independent research project.

Or rather Neville was looking around for Harry, as he was wont to do, and had found him retreating into a sunny nook to read.

Thankfully, Neville had a proper excuse to hang about in this same nook—a medicine section—and was very pleased when Harry looked up from his book to say hello.

"Hey, Harry," Neville said, glancing over his shoulder as he 'perused' the ingredients section.

"Researching for your project, again?"

All right. You are cool. As a cucumber. Nonchalance, Nev. Nonchalance. "I'm reading up on the Hibernian Creeping Cornflower, today. It's all the rage—" Rage? Seriously? "—in Herbology Quarterly. They say it could further the cure for farsightedness."

Harry chuckled, dropping his book lazily into his lap, and said, "I could use that. Let me know when you've perfected the potion, mate."

"No problem. You can be my first test subject." Neville turned back to the bookshelves, probably smiling like an idiot.

"How's everything in the Common Room, these days?" the other boy asked a little too casually, causing Neville to look around again.

"It's… odd." Merlin, it was difficult talking to Harry for more than a few words, especially when he looked so lost. And huggable. "I imagine you've been wanting some peace and quiet, lately."

"Yeah, a bit. I mean, everyone always seems to expect something of me—even Ron and Hermione—even after everything. I had enough, you know?"

"D'you want me to leave you alone?"

"No! Not at all. You're alright, Nev."

We'll then, if I'm alright… Neville plunked down next to him on the windowsill.

"It's nice talking to someone who doesn't care so much about what I'm supposed to do with my life as opposed to what I want to do with it."

"Yeah," Neville muttered. Bleh. Insufficient. "I kind of got the idea that you'd had enough of taking orders." There. Sarcasm. A bloke like Harry would like that sort of thing.

"Everyone seems to have some to-do list that I'm supposed to adhere to for the rest of my bloody existence. The top of which is 'Marry Ginny Bloody Weasley.' Who said I wanted to marry her? Molly was already planning the wedding—and Ginny's been channelling her, nonstop. Lovely as they are, I wanted to hang myself."

Neville coughed not so covertly.

Harry grinned.

They sat for a moment.

"It's been weird not talking to anyone, lately. I feel like I'm ten years old, again, and still a freak. Thanks… for having a chat with me. Sorry it's been so weird."

Neville looked to his side—and down a bit—at Harry, who was staring up at him with those earnest green eyes, and suppressed the urge to kiss him. "That's what friends do isn't it?"

"Is it? Then you're the best one I've got now." He looked even more depressed than usual, and Neville's hope deflated. "Not that that's a bad thing, us being friends."

Neville smirked, nudging Harry with an elbow. "Thanks."

"We've some catching up to do, though, mate. I haven't had the chance to talk to you in a while."

"Not been up to too much. Just, you know. Vandalising the school, getting roughed up, murdering sidekicks of dark lords, et cetera."

They both laughed. "Tell me about it," Harry muttered.

They 'caught up' until curfew, and Neville barely noticed that he was supposed to be fumbling over himself to impress Harry.

But, after all, Neville was never very good at noticing things.

Neville did notice, though, that he had a date for the next Hogsmeade trip. Although Harry didn't know that it was a date yet; he'd been too busy planning their day to notice either the blushes on Neville's face or the thumping of Neville's heart.

It was a cloudy November day when they walked to Hogsmeade together for their date, and Neville felt as comfortable as a jumper straight from the dryer, as warm as a blazing hearth, and not minding one bit that you could see his ankles and his wrists under his old robes.

He was with Harry.

And that's all that mattered, really.

Lunch at the Three Broomsticks was good fun, as they joined Seamus and Dean for fish and chips, although Neville only had eyes for Harry. Seamus and Dean had spent much of the time rolling their eyes as Neville and his best friend giggled over some joke that no one could understand. It was an absolute blast.

He almost forgot that he didn't have Harry for himself.

Twillfit &Tattings' branch in Hogsmeade was small, but didn't have all the raucous fans begging for Harry's autograph, so Neville was quite content (he was sure Harry shared the sentiment).

They tried on clothing with much more enjoyment and satisfaction than was normal for two teenaged boys, but the feeling of new clothes—of clothes that fit well—of clothes made just for you—probably made them giddy.

They spent too much.

But it was money—and time—well spent, in Neville's opinion. Especially when he took the time to notice the little things—the blushes, the borderline flirting, the fleeting touches, for example.

On the way home, after a day full of—dare he say it?—joy, Harry brought up Ginny.

Feeling rather put out but unable to deny Harry anything, Neville went with the flow.

"It's so strange, being broken up with her," Harry said as they trudged up the dirt path out of town, passing by the tree line of the Forbidden Forest.

"You feeling good about it?" Neville asked, tentatively.

"It feels… right."

This was it. This was his chance. "It's funny… I—I always thought you two wouldn't last long."

"What? Jealous?" Harry smirked, shoving a hand in his pocket as he slung his clothes bag over a shoulder.

Yes. "For one thing, Ginny's much too controlling—it encourages the rebel in you."

Harry guffawed until his face was red with life.

"And—" Neville gulped. "—I always thought you rather fancied blokes more than girls."

The life drained from his friend's face as the comment registered.

"What?" Harry asked, dangerously quiet.

"It's alright if you are, by the way—"

"I am not a pouf, Neville. What the fuck?"

This was going wrong. Very, very wrong.

"I didn't say you were, necessarily, I'd just got the impression…" His voice faded away in the face of Harry's anger.

"I don't know what gave you that idea, but I'm not." Harry stormed a few metres away, and then turned around, an indignant expression on his face.

No! No, wait! Don't leave me. Neville swallowed. "I am."

And the worst thing happened. Harry's face went blank, and he backed away, turned, and walked into the forest. He didn't come out, even when Neville stood for ten minutes debating whether to go after him. He'd gone about it all wrong, and he felt sick and tears were stinging his eyes.

Neville exhaled shakily. It'll be all right, he thought determinedly. It was just a bad reaction.

Better if all that was out in the open, anyway. Harry would probably come find him and apologize and they'd continue being best friends as if nothing had ever happened, tomorrow.

Or a month later.

A month in which Harry continued to avoid him, and a month in which Neville had taken to sleeping in on the weekends instead of seeking out his and Harry's favourite nook in the library and having a good read or doing a bit of research. His new pyjamas weren't nearly as exciting when he was back to having no real friends. In fact, it felt like he had fewer friends than he'd had his first year.

It was comfortable in bed, at least, and Neville pretended that his hair wasn't mussed and his teeth a bit fuzzy in order to create the illusion of a peaceful night's rest. He was dozing off again when the door slammed and hasty footsteps passed by the end of his enclosed four-poster.

And passed by the end of his four-poster.

And again.

Again.

Neville drew back the curtains and slipped out of bed, only to find a distressed Harry on the other side, pacing around the room agitatedly.

He felt the words catch on his tongue, cleared his throat, and tried again. "All right, Harry?"

The other boy started, and then, seeming to find some resolve, advanced until he stood before Neville, a good few inches shorter but still exuding veritable power.

"How do you know?" Harry looked positively livid, shaking with suppressed emotion as he stood in the space between their two beds, backing Neville 'into a corner', as it were.

"How do I know what, Harry?" Neville asked, feeling confused and afraid.

"How do you know if you… you're—"

He broke off and combed his fingers through his bird's nest of hair.

"How do you know when you… fancy blokes…?" Neville tried, and judging by the look of relief on Harry's face, he'd been successful. He didn't know what to say, so the two of them stood awkwardly for a moment until Neville decided that honesty would be the best thing.

He had nothing to lose, after all.

"I guess it starts with the boy's dorm. Noticing the physicality of your mates, and the same of the girls. And you notice you don't feel the same about the girls, as everyone seems to thing you should. Somehow, you think short hair is better, flat chest, lean-muscled, slim-hipped… and girls don't seem to matter much anymore. They don't catch your eye, anyway. Not like blokes do."

Harry stared at Neville, seemingly enraptured by this explanation.

"And then you realize you have so much in common with them, and they love the same things you do, and they've gone through the same, awkward childhoods with voice-changes and ill-fitting clothing, and despite the fact that you really have a thing for their arses—" Neville smirked inwardly. "—it's their companionship you want most."

They both seemed to exhale at this admission, Harry's eyes never leaving Neville, even as the taller boy looked anywhere but at his friend.

"And then you can't stand the thought of anyone else with them—seeing them flirting with girls makes you sick to your stomach, because you want to be the one to make them laugh, to share your secrets, to make them feel good, even… And soon it's so unbearable and you haven't even realized that you're in love with a bloke and he doesn't notice you and you don't even know how he really feels. What would he say if he knew? You can't bear to tell him because of your own fears but at the same time you can't keep it a secret or your heart will burst. And it aches." Neville sucked in a breath, feeling flushed and close to tears, his stomach in knots. The dread crashed in waves to the time of his heartbeat, and Harry just looked at him. "It aches."

"It's that simple, is it?" Harry asked, wryly.

Neville sighed. "Yeah."

"Sounds like more than just a thing for blokes, Nev."

"You've no idea."

"I think I might."

His voice was so hushed Neville almost doubted his own sanity.

"You… you make me feel stripped bare, Nev. I've never been able to speak so freely with anyone. No one has ever given me friendship without expecting something in return. You would've kept it a secret forever, for my sake, wouldn't you?"

Neville nodded, bringing his arms to wrap around himself and sitting heavily on the edge of his bed.

"I… I'm so sorry. It's been awful without you—I'm sorry for the way I reacted, it's just… I was just getting used to these feelings and you sprung it on me and I panicked. I was just scared."

With that Harry took off his jumper, leaving Neville gobsmacked, and continued:

"You're bloody gorgeous, did you know? Probably not, you're pretty oblivious about these things. But you've got this… air about you and when you talk about Herbology you get this light in your eyes and it's… addictive. I'd find myself thinking: I need some of that—I need to surround myself with this happiness. I need to keep him around."

Harry worked furiously on the buttons of his Oxford and soon was bare-chested, breathing hard and fast in front of him. Their eyes met, and the air practically crackled with tension. What was happening? This couldn't be real, could it? Then Harry worked on the zip of his denims.

"You make me feel…"

Harry wiggled out of his denims and pants in one go, a rapid blush suffusing his pale skin as he stepped out of them and, finally, removed his glasses, tossing them onto his bed.

"…stripped bare."

Neville practically choked on his heart, it was pounding so ridiculously fast in his throat, and reached helplessly for Harry, who stepped into his embrace tentatively, uncomfortable but never breaking eye contact. Neville slid his hands around Harry's waist, feeling the creamy warm skin at the small of his back.

And then they were kissing.

Neville gave it all he had, pressing, nipping, licking at Harry's plump lips and touching him everywhere he could reach—up and down his back urgently, mapping out Harry's body so he could know him. So he could never forget. But when Harry slipped his tongue into Neville's mouth, all hell broke loose—Neville grabbed for something to ground him, and ended up cupping Harry's delicious bum in his hands, inviting a light moan from the other boy's mouth.

This… this was…

"Nev," Harry sighed, and slipped onto his lap, magicking the curtains closed behind them and returning to his previous activity of investigating Neville's mouth.

And Neville noticed everything. The way Harry's spine travelled down his back in little hills. Harry's lopsided smile as he looked down at Neville. The hitch of his breath when Neville nipped at a spot on his neck.

He had Neville on his back in no time, muttering some spell that sounded like "muffler" or "macchiato" as Harry tugged the other boy's flannel pyjama bottoms down and over his hips, taking his pants with him, startling a moan from him.

And then they were naked and tangled and Harry's lips were everywhere and whispering, shuddering sweet things into Neville's skin. And then Neville couldn't take it anymore and he took their pricks in his hand and it felt good—so good—to hear Harry say his name. So good to hear his name like he was someone worthy. So good to be worshipped.

To be held as he was held and he held Harry in the aftermath of their frenzied lovemaking. To remember what it took to get here and how much he'd always wanted this. To feel Harry's eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. To notice every wonderful thing or action or thought that flitted through his hazy mind.

To be noticed.