All The Time In The World
Chapter One
Author's Note: I've got a thing about making my favourite characters happy (see A Line In The Sand) and Neville Longbottom has been my favourite character since Philosopher's Stone. What can I say? I've always had a thing for the underdog. I always knew he'd turn out well, but I've got to say I'm disappointed that he never got some lovin'. So here's me reconciling that. OC-ing to my heart's content. So, if you're not into OCs, this really won't be your thing.
They make it to the Room of Requirement with their bags tucked under their arms. The door billows into being and Neville snatches at Jemima's wrist. She winces as he shoves the door open and drags her inside. They huddle against the wall, too scared to light their wands. They can hear the Carrows' bellowing.
"Where are they? Where'd they go?"
The frisson of fear recedes after a while and when they light their wands the beams fall on a single hammock and several Gryffindor hangings. Lanterns around the wall warm into life. Jemima is standing very close to him, so he puts his arm around her and gives her a squeeze.
"We're safe now, Jem. Told you we'd be all right here."
"Yes," she replies quietly, the beam of her wand trembling. She reaches up, takes his hand from her shoulder and holds it tightly. "Neville, I'm afraid."
The tight little knot of fear in his gut liquefies and he finds himself growing hot with it. Jemima Lupin doesn't really do afraid and if she did, she certainly didn't admit it.
"Luna was taken," Jemima shivers, remembering how she was dragged from the Hogwarts Express at Christmas. Neville had managed to leg-lock one Death Eater before they were all stupefied, slumped in their seats all the way to King's Cross. "And your Gran's on the run. And now they're coming after us."
"Yeah, but we're safe here. And things will look better in the morning. That's what Gran always says."
Jem scrubs at her face with her free hand and manages a smile. Mrs Longbottom had taken her in over the Christmas holidays as her father was still in hiding with her stepmother. She still misses the old lady's fantastic casserole. The letter had come that evening, the Longbottoms' old owl tapping at the window, a scrawled note bound to its leg:
Have had a visit from Dawlish, I think he may need a few nights in St. Mungo's. They will be after you next, Neville. I am so proud of you, you are your parents son. Keep it up. Take care. Love Gran.
Neville had gawped at the letter, then tucked it into the pocket of his robes before they rushed off to throw some things into bags. They didn't dare wait in the hope of further news.
"Good old Mrs Longbottom," Jem says, with a shaky laugh.
She nibbles her nails and in the half-light from the lanterns, her face looks battered. Her lip cruelly split by Amycus Carrow, a black eye that has since faded to a sickly yellow. She keeps the arms of her jumper pulled down over her hands to cover the rope burns left from her last detention.
The hammock rocks slightly, as though trying to draw attention to itself. They need sleep, but the moment stretches and Neville finds himself leaning down and kissing her gently, chastely, on the lips. Her lips pout to meet his and when he straightens up they stare at each other, mystified.
"We should get some sleep," she eventually whispers.
He nods, a belated blush rushing to his cheeks. A blush that deepens when it finally dawns on them that there is only one hammock. They giggle as they tried to clamber into it and once they are settled the lights dim down into nothing. The hammock bundles them together and in the darkness she moves tentatively closer.
He holds himself very still as she slots herself under his arm, but then he relaxes, his hand curling over her bony hip. He is dozing off when she speaks again.
"Tomorrow we'll figure out how to make this work. And we'll need to get some food. Night, Nev."
She had helped him find his toad, taking pity on his stricken expression when he piled into her compartment that first day on the train. She had keen golden brown eyes, short pale brown hair and a nail-biting habit that had whittled her nails to stubs and shredded the surrounding skin.
As awkward only children they stuck together. She had only her father, Remus Lupin. Her mother, Griselda Blake, had been killed by Death Eaters when Jemima was only a week old. She had attended numerous Muggle schools because her father moved regularly in search of work and she had no friends outside of Hogwarts. While Neville had no parents, she envied him his eccentric extended family, though she was secretly terrified of his Grandmother.
Neville and Jemima came as a package in the same way that Seamus and Dean did, or Harry, Ron and Hermione, so he was hurt that she never told him the truth about her father. He heard on the rumour mill that Remus Lupin was a werewolf.
Neville had decided that he was quite angry at her lack of trust and was going to say so, he really was. But then he saw her in the doorway of her father's office, arms crossed and scowling. She didn't see him, so he retreated just as her father kissed her on the top of the head, hefted his suitcase and said he'd see her in a few days.
Neville found her later by the lake and despite a lifetime of restrained Englishness had put his arms around her to give her a tentative hug. They had never hugged before and despite their closeness, their fierce vows to always be best friends, it felt strange and awkward. The tears he felt on his neck were red hot and she scrubbed furiously at her face, squinting hard to stop crying.
"He's a good teacher."
"I know."
"And there's nothing wrong with me, you know. St. Mungo's said so."
"How do they know?" He was appalled by the idea that they might have run tests on her.
"My mother died before my first full moon. Dad arranged for friends to look after me for a while, but then... There was no one to look after me. I spent every full moon at St. Mungo's after that till I came here."
He had never felt sorry for her before, so the upsurge of pity then was an alien emotion. He had a better awareness than most of the inside of St. Mungo's. She was, after all, not the only one keeping secrets.
So there, in the glare of early summer sunshine, while her father made his lonely way down to the station, they swapped secrets. She told him of the way her temper rose at the full moon and her love of rare meat and he told her of the collection of sweet wrappers in a shoebox under his bed, all titbits from his mother.
"You didn't tell me," she said, a note of accusation in her voice.
"You didn't tell me!"
She shifted and shrugged, pushing her hair back from her face.
"People don't like werewolves. And people don't like things that aren't normal. Like me."
"I didn't want people to feel sorry for me. And I didn't want anyone to… make fun of my mum and dad. It's not funny."
"No. It's not," she leant closer and bumped her shoulder affectionately against his. "I would never make fun. Thank you for telling me."
He looked up and that was when his crush on his best friend was born. Her golden eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy and there was a sparkle of moisture at each nostril. But she didn't laugh; she didn't reel off a list of platitudes. He realised then that he wanted her. He was thirteen-years-old; his body was doing things that embarrassed him – sprouting hair and shooting up so that Malfoy sniggered at the inches of ankle his trousers exposed. And now it seemed that his heart was rebelling against him too, because he knew full well that she was in love with George Weasley – a secret he had sworn never to reveal.
By the time George asked her to the Yule Ball, Neville's crush had reached tragic heart-breaking proportions. She was his best friend, so he couldn't help but be happy for her when she danced into his dorm and told him that George wanted to go to the Ball with her. But he took a spiteful sort of pleasure in the fact that on the night she told him he waltzed much better than George. It didn't quite take the sting out of catching them snogging around every corner, but it helped.
