Thanks a million to the Qs of A, Mullvaney, Skruvsta and Seaspray for their support and feedback on an earlier draft of this chapter and to Surburban House Elf, for a fantastic job beta reading, as always.
Chapter Nine – A House That LacksThe rest of the week was busy. On Tuesday Neville had a letter to write, as well as his usual tasks around the house and garden. Gran had said very little at breakfast. He expected a lecture after Hannah had left for work, but Gran simply ran through the day's work with him as normal and departed for Mrs Marchbank's.
The rest of the week, while Hannah was at the Ministry, Neville did his best to be friendly to Mr Abbott if he bumped into him around the place. He didn't get very far. The man was vaguer than Professor Binns, even when addressed directly. He did little now but sit and brood, usually slumped in Gran's particular arm chair, which Neville thought was a bit cheeky.
In the evenings, Neville and Hannah settled into a routine of going up to Neville's bedroom. Once Hebe had delivered a prompt reply to Neville's letter on Wednesday morning, there was little more to talk about. Comparing notes about their respective days would soon give way to more interesting pursuits. Neville thought he'd have satisfied his curiosity about kissing lying down by now but, for some reason, it never got old. At ten-thirty without fail Gran would begin to lock up downstairs, making plenty of noise rattling around in the kitchen. Whispering a breathless goodnight, Hannah would vanish upstairs without a sound. A moment or two later, Gran's heavy footsteps would creak past his door, then pause. "Goodnight, you two!" she would call, a newly questioning, uncertain note in her voice.
"'Night Gran," he would mumble.
"Goodnight Augusta!" Hannah's silvery tones would ring out from her little room under the eaves. Neville would lie for a few minutes more staring into the darkness, grinning and feeling a bit stunned. Then he dragged himself to his feet and got ready for bed by the light of his wand. He couldn't complain. As bedtime routines went, it certainly beat what he was used to.
As well as his usual chores, it fell to Neville to refurbish the brooms Hannah had found in the outhouse. It wasn't work he'd ever done before and he found it almost as soothing and satisfying as gardening. For the first time in his life, Neville elected to stay indoors on a sunny Friday afternoon in the summer holidays. He'd decided he could put off tying up the raspberry canes for a day or two, despite Gran's warnings about high winds over the weekend. While he clipped unkempt twigs and lashed new ones, while he sanded and polished the rough handles, Neville read and reread the letters his grandmother had given him as an early birthday present. They must have belonged to his mum, because they were all in his Dad's handwriting, save for one little fragment appended to one of the earliest letters. The note read:
Frank managed to get here tonight after all. Weeks of waiting, only to say goodbye again so soon. I am happy though. I love Frank and I know he will love me however long we are apart. It will feel strange to return to school, without him to look at during meals and dream about in lessons. Ten endless months until we meet again but then we will be together at long last – forever this time.
The next letter was dated a day later, and was written on Ministry headed parchment.
Darling Alice,
You'll like it here – it'll suit us down to the ground. But Rufus caught me off guard today while I was thinking about last night. I don't know how I'm going to beat him this week if thoughts of you keep popping into my mind at inopportune moments! It's late, I'll write more soon but I just wanted to remind you I'm thinking about you. Don't let that slimy git Peasegood sit next to you at dinner. I've got his number. Love always, Frank.
The letters dated at regular intervals over the next several months mostly described the details of Auror training. Reading about the arduous and dangerous tests his dad had cheerfully undergone made Neville feel a bit strange. He'd grown up accepting that what Gran and his other relatives said was true – that there was no possibility he could follow in his parents' footsteps. For years, he'd just been grateful that he'd got into Hogwarts. He remembered what he'd said to Gran the morning he went to meet Hannah in London – could it really have been only three weeks ago? – that he'd never wanted to be an Auror. It wasn't quite true. Poring over his dad's letters, Neville finally acknowledged a long-buried secret ambition – one that he now realised had burst to the surface the moment he learned that the Lestranges had broken out of Azkaban. Neville shrugged and ran his thumb over a knot hole in the handle of his mum's old broom. Every disastrous lesson, before and since, confirmed that he'd never had the right stuff.
Defence – until recently Neville had thought he could handle himself well enough. It hadn't come easily but after two good teachers he'd been proud to discover that he had – so he thought – ability and nerve. Potions was another matter. He'd long been resigned to abysmal failure, despite the occasional prickle of annoyance that accompanied the sinking feeling of humiliation and abject misery which followed nearly every lesson. He'd never joined in when Hermione went into a rant about favouritism andpicking on people and the unfairness of it all. Before coming to Hogwarts it had been the one subject – apart from Herbology – he'd actually looked forward to. It seemed almost laughable to think about it now but as a child he'd loved standing by Gran's skirts, handing her the herbal ingredients that made up the simples and ointments she was renowned for. Later he progressed to helping chop and shred the plants and roots and had even, on occasion, been allowed to stir the cauldron.
Neville frowned as he absently scoured away at a rough bit on the broom handle. Maybe that murdering git Snape had been right all along – he was useless. If he couldn't keep it together when the pressure was on – what sort of wizard would he ever be? After the Department of Mysteries he'd thought he might be getting somewhere. He'd started to believe he might really belong in Gryffindor, that he was entitled to call himself Frank and Alice Longbottom's kid. One year of Defence with Snape and he'd gone to pieces. He'd let them all down.
Neville tested the broom handle – smooth as silk. Stop moithering, the voice in his head that sounded like Gran admonished him. And Hannah wouldn't be best pleased to hear him being so self-pitying either. No point getting things out of proportion. He could always pick up Potions again one day, if he managed to keep himself in one piece long enough. It was totally over the top to blame Snape for messing up his life – he had a chance at three decent N.E.W.T.S and that was a heck of a lot more than some people. Things could be a whole lot worse, considering. Look at Hannah. Loads brainier than him and stuck playing nursemaid to a dodgy civil servant.
He turned the broom over in his hands, admiring its aerodynamics and practicality. It looked almost new. The fragile bubble of his Auror dream, strengthened by successful D.A sessions, never survived longer than his next Transfiguration lesson anyway, never mind Potions. His less than impressive showing in his O.W.L.s. had put paid to it for good. Besides – disguise, tracking – all that malarkey? Harry and Ron could keep it.
When Saturday came, a short test ride around the garden showed no obvious flaws in either broom. Neville had worried that the in-built flight spells would be disturbed by his amateur refurbishment, but his dad's old broom was even more responsive and willing to be ridden than before. Hannah said that she could feel the vibrations from his mum's before she even lifted it off the ground.
"So – where are we going to go then?" Hannah called down from her perch near the back chimney pot.
"You should come down." Neville practised climbing rather hesitantly, and hovered uneasily in front of Hannah. "Someone from the village might see you."
"They'd need binoculars," grumbled Hannah. "All right, all right. I don't want to get you into trouble." She sank to the lawn with good grace.
"I thought Hufflepuffs were meant to be the sensible ones." Neville landed without a wobble. He was glad she was pleased with the broom. She looked really happy, with her hair flying and roses in her cheeks. More like the Hannah he knew than the wan shadow who returned from her days in the dusty bowels of the Ministry.
"Sensible!" Hannah zoomed and banked very close to the ground, as Zophy attempted to pounce on a twig trailing from the broom. "What a nerve. I hope you don't mean me."
"As if I could." Neville decided to tease her. "I'm talking about that stuffed shirt Macmillan and that other chinless bloke you hang round with – Featherstone-double-bracket-something-or-other."
"His name is Justin Finch-Fletchley," said Hannah haughtily, weaving over and under the washing line at top speed, maddening Zophy into a frenzy. "And I'd rather have sensible friends than your lawless lot."
"Hermione'd be surprised to hear herself described as lawless." Neville grinned. "You'll have to mention it to her when you next see her."
"No way. I'll be on my best behaviour. She scares me silly."
"Come off it. She's nice."
"Well, if nice now means bossy and terrifyingly clever, I'll take your word for it." Hannah turned once too quickly and teetered for a minute, flailing her arms wildly, before slipping off sideways to land on the grass. The broom somersaulted into the raspberry canes. They were flailing in the blustery wind, Neville noticed guiltily. Zophy pounced in, delighted. "Gerroff, cat," Hannah grabbed the kitten to stop her from wrecking the broom. "What day was it Hermione said she could come?"
"Monday – as you well know."
"I think I might have to throw a sickie."
"And then where would we be? You know she's our only hope of coming up with something to find the spell traces on the traffic lights."
Hannah frowned and lay back on the grass, cuddling Zophy and scratching the kitten's fluffy ears. "Never mind Hermione Granger. I've had an idea – for our maiden voyage. I'd like to go home."
"Home?" Neville was dubious. "That doesn't sound like a wise idea."
"We can go when it's dark. Please Neville. I'll be in and out in ten minutes. I really need to get some more clothes now I'm working. I'm getting sick of washing and wearing the same skirt and blouse every day."
"Gran said you could borrow something of hers."
"You are joking? Even if they fitted, it'd be …" Hannah shuddered.
"…weird," Neville finished. "Fair enough. Shall we go tonight?"
"Really – you mean it? Neville, you're the best."
Neville flung himself down beside her. "It doesn't get properly dark until around ten, so we can set off after Gran's gone to bed."
"I hadn't thought of that. Shouldn't we tell her?" Hannah looked worried.
"You reallyare law-abiding aren't you? She'll only fuss. She doesn't even know I can ride a broom now – look!" Neville jumped up and got back onto his dad's broom. He soared into the air and did his version of hanging upside down from the handle – this time without needing Madam Hooch to rescue him or fearing that at any moment he was going to plummet to the ground.
"Very fancy – isn't that a Sloth Grip Roll? My turn."
The night was air was crisp and it was quite blowy, but no worse than it had been all week. However, even at a quarter to eleven, it wasn't as dark as it could have been. Neville nearly had second thoughts when they were aloft and looking around for the river, the landmark that would take them due west for the first part of the journey. He'd been glad to learn that Hannah's home, in a suburb of Durham, was only forty miles away. The Cushioning Charms had been hardest to reset, and he couldn't have done it quite right because the woodiness of the handle was definitely perceptible after five minutes or so.
He'd never flown so high in his life and resisted the temptation to look down, instead fixing his gaze on the ribbon of lights in the distance that marked the road they would follow for the greater part of the journey. "You've done an amazing job with these, you know," Hannah said, sounding matter-of-fact and not at all nervous. She dropped back from her position in the lead to fly alongside him as they turned north along the motorway.
"It wasn't that hard," he said, feeling a warm glow of pride at her praise and then a swoop of panic as his nonchalant shrug caused the broom to lurch for a second. He resumed his death grip on the handle.
"You don't give yourself enough credit," she chided gently. "This one's perfectly balanced, the brakes are fine and it's got tons of acceleration."
"Thanks. I dunno really – they're good brooms. We've only ever ridden school ones before."
"Those mouldy bunches of twigs. Death traps." Hannah paused, with the little intake of breath that meant she was unsure whether or not to say what was on her mind. "It can't have been easy …"
Neville said nothing, waiting for her to go on. She made a vague gesture. "I mean … this was your dad's broom." He nodded as she hesitated, giving her permission to continue. "Does it remind you of him?"
He didn't know how to answer that. How could he explain that he'd hated both brooms his whole life until a week ago – sitting in the outhouse mouldering away, reproaching him every time he went to get a rake or trowel, too feeble and scared to even go near them, let alone try and ride them. He wasn't used to talking about this sort of stuff and he wasn't sure his voice would sound normal if he tried to answer her question. He thought about the bare facts he'd given Hannah in his last letter before they met.
Once a month I go and visit my parents in the spell damage ward at St. Mungo's. Can you meet me outside around twelve-thirty?
Given Hannah's embarrassment the couple of times she'd let slip a tactless word, Neville had assumed he'd said enough. It was hardly a secret in the wizarding world. Surely she was bound to know all about his parents – from Gran if not from anywhere else? But in the last few days, watching Mr Abbott, he'd started to wonder if the source of her discomfort was closer to home. He found he was able to answer her question after all. "I dunno if remind is the right ... see, I don't remember him – from before."
"Before?"
He stared straight ahead and concentrated on the feeling of the night air rushing past his face, of his chilled and stiffened fingers clutching the broom handle. He experimented with shifting his grip and thought about that as he spoke. "They were tortured by Death Eaters when I was one. They've been in hospital ever since. Their minds are gone."
"Oh," was all Hannah said, very gently.
Neville didn't add that sometimes he thought he could remember his mum. Her voice, her soft hair and gentle hands touching his face. He didn't know if it was a real memory, or one he'd reconstructed out of wishful thinking. His mum was sometimes quite chatty on visits. The disjointed and repetitive words and phrases never made any sense but he sometimes let himself imagine how she would look and sound if she talked like a normal, healthy person. When he did that, he pictured her as she was in the wedding pictures on the mantelpiece, young and pretty despite the outline of her rounded tummy in the white robes. The first picture of the three of them together, his granddad used to say, when he wanted to wind Gran up.
After a few moments, Hannah said, "I'd heard – something – you know how people talk. Gossip … it's dangerous. I didn't want to pry."
He found that by moving very slowly, he was able to let go with one hand and extricate his gloves from his jacket pocket. He concentrated on putting them on with the utmost care, grateful to Hannah for not smothering him with sympathy. They flew side by side in companionable silence for the next ten miles or so.
Neville's confidence on the broom was growing. As he relaxed, he grew more comfortable and the height no longer bothered him as much. They veered upwards to avoid a low-lying cloud and Hannah said, "So, were these brooms for work or play?"
He was puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Well, Nimbus is a racing make. Designed for speed. Did they play?"
"At school – yeah. Not after, I don't think. But …" He couldn't put it into words – but somehow it felt right to be using his parents' old brooms now, on a night like this, on a journey with a purpose. Somehow he knew his dad would have approved, of the expedition itself, and of his daring in sneaking off in the middle of the night.
He took a deep breath. "Gran gave me these letters a while back. My dad's letters, to Mum – before I was born. Loads of them. Most of them written the year she was still at school and he was starting his Auror training."
"I remember your gran mentioning he'd been an Auror. That's pretty cool."
"Mum too." For the first time, Neville felt a surge of pride as he read the open admiration on Hannah's face. She was smiling up at him and he smiled back, feeling something knotted inside him loosening, letting him breathe more easily, despite the cold.
"So they were in love that young. How lovely for you. But I suppose it must feel a bit odd – reading about your parents at that age?"
"Well, yeah," he mumbled. "'Specially at first." There was no way he could explain what it felt like to read his dad's words, sound them in his head. No way of describing how it was almost as though his dad was in the room with him, young and strong and ambitious. The voice in the letters wasn't the one belonging to the shadowy figure with the title of 'dad' he visited in the hospital. That burnt-out husk of a human being scarcely ever spoke and never above a whisper. As far back as he could remember, Neville had felt only pity – and, occasionally, boredom and stifled resentment – during the long hours spent dutifully paying his respects to someone who didn't recognise or acknowledge him. He couldn't put into words the burning, choking sensation that swelled in his chest when he read and re-read the letters, the tears that smarted behind his eyes, which made no sense because it was obvious that his dad had been completely, powerfully happy when he wrote them.
"So, apart from Auror training, what else were the letters about?"
He felt a rush of gratitude. Trust Hannah. It was like she could read his mind, knowing exactly what he was incapable of saying.
"Well … you know."
"Their feelings for each other?"
"Yes."
"Plans for the future?"
"That too."
"Reminiscing about the past?" He glanced sideways. She gave him a sly grin. Yes, she was definitely on his wavelength. He nodded.
"Like you wouldn't believe. Do you …"
"What?"
"Do you think it's …" He couldn't think how to put it. Some of the letters made him blush to the tips of his ears. He'd only read those bits once, but it was like the words were branded across the inside of his skull. "I mean, Mum never meant for anyone else to see them."
"Oh, Neville." Hannah flew very close to him, so close he could feel the warmth of her leg through her jeans as it brushed against his. She let go of her broom and patted his arm, flying easily one-handed. "Your mum wouldn't mind – she'd be glad. Glad that this way she could tell you herself how much your dad loved her."
That made sense. Hannah had a way of making things seem so simple. The last of the tension knotting his stomach dissolved and he felt wildly free and happy. He wanted to whoop and yell at the moon and stars but they were leaving the motorway behind them and flying over chimney-pots and handkerchief-sized backyards. Now, Hannah slowed and dropped down below the level of the trees lining the residential streets. Neville followed and shortly found himself flying between two steep banks, with nothing visible on either side.
"It's the railway line that runs along the back of my house. It's good cover. We just follow it now for another few minutes and then we're practically there."
They flew over a chain link fence and touched down on a bare and empty stretch of grass with white wooden posts and bright white lights flaring at either end. "Good," said Hannah. "We can see where we're going. This is the local rec." Neville's puzzlement must have shown on his face and her voice took on an instructional tone. "Recreation ground. It's like a playing field – you know, like a Quidditch pitch only for Muggle games."
"Like football you mean?" said Neville conversationally, shouldering his broom and following Hannah across the grass. She gave him an odd look and he smirked a little. He wasn't completely clueless when it came to Muggle stuff. Sharing a room with Dean for six years had its advantages, even if he did snore like a boarhound.
Hannah started towards the noise of cars in the road running along the side of the field. "You'd think they'd turn the lights out to save electricity but they never bother," she grumbled. "These floodlights shine straight in my bedroom window." She cocked her head on one side, listening. "I didn't think landing in the street would be a good idea. It's just about chucking-out time."
Sure enough, as they walked through the gate, they were passed by small clots and trickles of young men and women, all of whom seemed to be in great spirits, with the exception of one girl in the middle of a bigger group. She was dressed in extremely tight and short robes and a headdress higher than Gran's stuffed vulture. Her eyes were glassy and she stumbled continually as she walked. Neville's hand went automatically to his wand – was she under the Imperius Curse?
With a low moan, she sank down onto the pavement, her bare legs in high-heeled shoes sticking out into the middle of the road. "No-oo. I can't go any further. Don't make me," he heard. One of the other girls grabbed her arm and dragged her back onto her feet.
"Come on now, mate, nearly home," she slurred encouragingly.
Hannah held onto Neville's arm, keeping them in the shadows until the last of the group weaved their way around the corner. "It's fine," she whispered in Neville's ear. "They're Muggles – it's just a hen party."
"A what?" he whispered back, still astonished that anyone could be that drunk and get back up again.
"Never mind, it's not important. Come on – it's along here."
Hannah walked up the short path, fumbling with her door keys, the familiar scent of roses heavy on the night air. She wished she could see her mother's rose trees in daylight, even though they'd be nothing like as magnificent as last summer, after almost a year's neglect. She found her Yale key with the criss-cross pattern on it by touch and lifted it to the keyhole. It didn't slide in the way it was supposed to. She pushed at it but it skated away ineffectually over the metal faceplate.
"It's open," Neville whispered at her shoulder.
Hannah found that she was shaking, a deep, violent trembling that started in her diaphragm and spread outwards until her legs were barely supporting her. She dropped her bunch of keys, which rang and jangled on the concrete step. Hannah winced. What if the intruders – whoever they were – were still in there?
"Let me go first," she heard Neville whisper. In a daze, she watched him prop both brooms carefully in the alcove between the front door and the bay window, so that they were almost invisible. He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze, before letting go to reach for his wand in the inside pocket of his thick, black jacket. He carefully pushed at the door, opening it inch by inch so that it didn't creak.
She came to her senses with a jerk. "No!" she whispered, pulling him back. "You'll get into trouble." Hannah took her own wand out of her belt loop and stepped over the threshold. Her foot crunched on something. The air was stale and the house felt empty and cold. "There's no one here," she said in a loud voice designed to scare away her own silly fears and snapped on the hall light.
Slowly, she took in a scene of devastation. The crunching underfoot was glass, every pane in the door to the living-room was smashed. Wallpaper hung in long tattered shreds and the carpet was covered in plaster that had crumbled away from the wall. "We've been burgled."
"I'm – I'm not sure …Hannah, be careful."
Hannah walked over and put her hand on the doorknob. She prodded it open and stood back until she was sure that nothing was stirring in the darkness beyond. She reached in and flicked the light switch just inside the door.
In the living-room the damage was worse. The TV screen was a jagged hole framed in black plastic. The cushions of the three piece suite had been shredded and thrown around the room, foam filling oozing from the dark red leather. The tall bookcase had been tipped onto the floor, more shattered glass covering the carpet. In here, both the curtains and the walls hung in tatters. Hannah reeled, blinking in the harsh overhead light and grabbed the back of the sofa, steadying herself.
"I – I should … call the police. Or something." Her voice rang and buzzed and hurt her ears but the words were muffled, as though she were speaking from the folds of a woollen scarf wrapped a dozen times around her head.
"No. You have to get your stuff and then we have to get out of here, quickly."
She looked where Neville was pointing from the doorway. In an otherwise clear area of carpet, a formless shape quivered, shimmering a glossy red. More senseless vandalism. Lipstick, perhaps? She took a shaky step towards it. If she could just get close enough, she could see what it was.
"Stop Hannah! It's magic, can't you tell?" He moved further into the room and stood between her and the mark on the floor.
Could she? Her head was now buzzing so loud it seemed to drown out every other sensation. Her limbs felt heavy but in a pleasant way, like the tiredness after a strenuous walk. All she wanted was to touch the gleaming, greasy substance on the floor. Neville was blocking her way, both arms outstretched to hold her back. "I can't see," she whined, attempting to push past. Perhaps it would be warm if she stepped into it, a hot bath at the end of a long journey.
"It's a 'stop' sign," she said dreamily, extending her foot to dip a toe.
"Don't TOUCH it!" shouted Neville, gripping her upper arms so tightly that the pain cleared her head for a moment. She slumped against him, trying to remember where she was.
"Ugh. I don't feel … very well." The buzzing was stronger and spreading down her spine and along arms and legs that no longer felt pleasantly heavy but deeply, achingly tired. Neville dragged her bodily back through the living-room door and then out of the house into the fresh air. He shoved her down onto the front step.
"What shall I do?" His voice was tinny and distant over the roar of the blood in her ears.
"M – Madam Pomfrey usually makes me put my head between my knees."
"Right. You do that then." Neville sounded scared but determined. "I'm going to get your stuff, then we're out of here. Which is your room? Never mind – I'll find it."
After five minutes of sitting on the cold step, while the dizziness and tingling barely receded, Neville was back with her blue rucksack bulging. "Can you seal this door, Hannah?"
"Mmm-hm," she mumbled, fumbling for her keys.
"No, I meansealit."
"Oh. Ah – yes." Hannah lifted her head and clutched the hem of Neville's jacket and the hand he held out to her. She dragged herself to her feet, and drew her wand. With what felt like her last ounce of strength she sealed the door and set an Imperturbable Charm.
"Let's go then." They set off in the direction of the recreation ground. She stumbled every other step, despite Neville's steadying arm.
As they shuffled away from the house, Neville's heart sank. He'd hoped that getting Hannah away from that horrible splotch on the floor would be enough. It had reminded Neville of a puddle of clotting blood. The blood on the floor of the passage that he'd slipped in, as he tried to twist out of the path of the Reductor Curse. The curse that barely touched him and left a gaping hole in his side. The ribs had only taken twelve hours to grow back. His insides had taken longer, but hurt less. "You were very lucky," Madam Pomfrey had said. "The liver has amazing powers of regeneration." He was going to have to get them both home somehow. Could they even make it to the end of the street? He looked both ways – the road was deserted and the nearby houses were dark.
"Hannah, we're going home on one broom. Are you up to navigating, if I fly?"
"Mm, think so," she mumbled, still sounding as if she was about to throw up.
"Good." Neville mounted his broom, pulled Hannah on in front and put both arms round her waist. She was as limp as a wet dishrag. The rucksack was slung on his back and with Hannah's broom to carry and flying his own, his hands were full. If things weren't bad enough, the wind was getting up, cold enough that his face and ears felt like they were being cut to ribbons. As they soared over the house, Neville thanked his stars that the lamplit street was still empty. Hannah's head was nodding again and he had to tighten his hold around her waist to make sure she didn't slip sideways.
After a minute or two, the fresh air revived her a little. She looked up and pointed vaguely to the right of the course they were taking. Changing direction, Neville found the railway line that had guided them the last few miles. The wind howled through the channel of the embankment. Slowly, bumpily they made their way home. The moon had disappeared behind thick clouds and it took twice as long as the outward journey. Neville was grateful for the bright strip of the Muggle road, heavy with traffic even after midnight. Hannah was a dead weight sitting in front of him, her head occasionally nodding and then jerking upwards as she forced herself to stay awake and alert enough to check for landmarks. They didn't talk much.
When Neville landed in his own garden, his back and knees were stiff with exhaustion from controlling the broom and its double load. He tumbled onto the dew-laden grass, leaving Hannah to fend for herself. She had recovered sufficiently to help him back to his feet. He stowed the brooms hurriedly in the old greenhouse and they slipped into the house through the back door. Neville stood in the kitchen and breathed in the wonderful, comforting smell of home – baking and herbs and fresh vegetables in the rack next to the butcher's block.
"Here's your stuff." He held out the bag to her. "We'll talk in the morning. Will you be all right?" She looked at the floor and then up at him, and said in a low voice,
"I – I don't want to be alone. Not tonight."
Neville digested this. "OK, fine – me neither. Let's go."
They climbed the stairs and Neville followed Hannah into his room. His muddled thoughts were sending weird signals to various parts of his body, so he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He should really be paying more attention, he supposed. If only he weren't sounbelievably tired.
"Are there – er – t-shirts in here?" said Hannah scrabbling through the rucksack. "My favourite nightshirt! You're a genius." He dropped his jacket and jeans on the floor, took off his socks and collapsed into bed, waiting for her to stop fussing around in the dark. The mattress sagged slightly as she climbed in beside him. The bed dipped towards the middle and they rolled towards each other.
"Thanks, Neville." He felt rather than heard the whisper against his neck. They moved closer until their limbs were entwined in what were – surprisingly – incredibly comfortable positions. He could feel the rise and fall of Hannah's breath against his chest. Gradually, Neville relaxed. It felt safe and warm and right to be lying here – not kissing, not thinking anything related to what now orwant more. He too cuddled closer, all his awkward self-consciousness vanishing in the darkness and silence. Slowly they slipped into a cradling, healing sleep. Twice during what was left of the night, Neville half-woke. Both times, after a few moments, Hannah's eyes opened sleepily and she smiled at him, before snuggling deeper into his arms and dozing off again. Each time, the grey half-light of dawn was a little paler. Eventually the first bright shaft of sunlight pierced the gap in the curtains – and Neville woke fully to the knowledge that his grandmother would soon be up and about.
Hannah sat up. "I should go. Why court disaster?" Then she lay down again. "Just a few more minutes," she said with a trace of her old mischief.
"You're feeling better then?"
"Much better for being here. Thank you for last night. I don't know what came over me.
"It was a trap, that stuff, I'm sure of it. It seemed, I dunno …"
"Like it had been put there by someone."
"Yeah. Merlin knows what would have happened if either of us had touched it. We can't just leave it, we have to tell someone."
"I can't tell Dad, he's … not in a fit state right now." It didn't seem the right moment to ask whether Mr Abbott was ill or just a complete pain in the backside. There were more pressing things on hand, such as getting Hannah back to her room before they were sprung, but ideally not before a snog. On second thoughts, maybe that wasn't such a good idea. He hadn't cleaned his teeth before going to sleep. Neville was seized with a sudden fit of self-consciousness and backed away into the gap between the mattress and the wall, increasing the space between their faces by at least six inches.
"So what are we going to do? I'm not mad keen on the idea of telling Gran either." Hannah giggled.
"That's an understatement. No, I've decided – I'm going to tell Mr Perkins."
Neville's heart sank. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. He'll know what to do."
Five minutes later, Hannah slipped out of bed and crept upstairs. Neville watched her go with mixed feelings. It was probably for the best. After some sleep, even cuddling took on a whole new meaning under the covers with not many clothes on. His last conscious thought before falling asleep again was want … more.
