Author: Gabriel Frosner
E-mail: Gabriel_Frosner@yahoo.co.uk
Rating: I think it's PG-13
Pairing: Neville/Percy
Words: 8529
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Nor Neville nor Percy. Nor my life, my thoughts and my soul.
Author's Notes: this was done for the Neville Fuh-Q-Fest:
Dedication: for Khirsah, for starting the entire Neville/Percy epidemic (and it's a very infectious disease--it has spread to me and through me, multiplying so fast that my white blood cells have been overwhelmed), and her story "Unlikely Heroes" is mandatory reading for any Neville slash fan. Because I said so. And for Kimagure, for all her wonderful encouragment. *glomps you both*
Challenge: Trevor gets lost and Neville is frantic in searching for him. Why? Who helps him find his toad, and where do they find him? (submitted by Kimagure)
Epigraph: lines 12-25 from "The Buried Life" by Matthew Arnold, that wonderful Victorian poet.
Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel?
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame reproved;
I knew they lived and moved
Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves - and yet
The same heart beats in every human breast!
But we, my love! - doth a like spell benumb
Our hearts, our voices? - must we too be dumb?
"If there's one thing the world has taught me, Percy, it's that there's no such thing as love."
* * * * *
The cold was the only thing of which Neville was aware, blowing through the corners of the window, the creases in his sheets and the folds of his skin, whisking the heat away from his body. Drowsily, almost unaware of his own actions, he wrapped the blankets around him, forming a nest, and gently put his hand to the breast pocket of his pyjamas for the comforting presence that Trevor provided, but his hand came down through the space that Trevor usually occupied, landing upon the fabric covering his own body, waking him completely.
The cold wafted through his blood, reaching his brain, seeping through cracks until it filled everything like fog curling into a room from underneath a door.
"T-Trevor?" Neville whispered, his voice shaking.
It wasn't that Trevor was physically warm, but he provided a warmth to Neville that transcended the physical, that worked straight into Neville's heart and was pumped outward into the rest of the body.
And now it was gone.
Neville timidly ran his hands over his bed, afraid that any sudden movement could hurt Trevor, suppressing images of a searching hand squashing him flat, or Neville's body crushing him as he rolled over to get out of bed.
Minutes passed as Neville checked and re-checked every rumple of the sheets, but Trevor wasn't there.
Neville moved the curtains away from the end of his bed and carefully checked the ground for life before letting his feet land against the frigid stone. Neville could almost feel the slight moisture of the bottom of his feet freezing, binding him to the ground; it was ripped apart and then melted as Neville walked to the centre of the room, only to freeze again when Neville put the foot down to move the other.
Carefully fighting panic, Neville put his ear down against the cold stone, listening for any movement as his eyes searched under beds and dressers for a flitting shadow or a misshapen lump.
His eyes strained against the grey moonlight--silver without the lustre sheen--but it revealed little except deep grey shadows, and even what was lit remained washed out, as though the light couldn't bring itself to overcome the dark and the cold.
Neville kept his ear to the ground until he was certain he could feel icicles of his panic-induced sweat connecting him to the ground ("it's only in your imagination, Neville; the heating spells wouldn't let the castle get that cold"), and he turned over, pressing his other ear to the ground, gently ("don't wake anyone, Neville; they don't need to be disturbed by your helpless incompetence"), and continued searching.
Neville turned from one side of his face to the other as his skin became too cold, and his eyes strained to the point that every movement felt like the scraping of an unoiled, rusty hinge, the squealing of metal dragged against metal a verbal protest to his movements.
Trevor was nowhere to be found.
He carefully brought himself to his feet, and began moving towards the door, reminding himself to walk on the balls of his feet so that he wouldn't wake anyone ("knowing you, you'll crash into something and wake them anyway"), and crept to the door, opening it silently, thankful for the magically-maintained hinges, and left the room.
Outside of the room, he felt each step of the stairs to every dormitory with his hand before stepping down, the images of Trevor crushed beneath his careless feet still coming uncontrollably (bits of flesh littering the ground; blood, black in the dim light, against the grey stairs, wet and sticky against his foot, staining it, condemning him). Neville shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the thought from his mind. He knew the effort was futile.
After searching every stair (even the ones up to all seven girls' dormitories, though Neville went there with great trepidation), Neville made his way down to the common room (searching every stair again, for good measure--Trevor may have moved onto one, and if Neville didn't check...).
He brushed his hand along the last stair, feeling the cold against his hand before brushing his hand back across to make sure Trevor wasn't there before looking up and seeing a cocoon of a blanket on one of the couches, hair, grey in the dull light, the only visible body part that emerged from the cocoon, the person's face turned towards the couch's back.
Neville, surprised, lost his balance and fell, arms flailing futilely for anything to hold him up, then smashing against the ground, his stomach and face absorbing the impact.
Tears dripped out of his eyes like the warm, wet, sticky fluid that flowed from his nose, around his lips and into his mouth, tasting metallic and almost sweet ("Prove Gran wrong, Neville, and don't be a blubbering incompetent fool; don't be a blubbering incompetent fool"). The tears fell harder.
"What--Are you okay?" The person asked, waking quickly, the cocoon unfurling, revealing the fifth-year prefect of a butterfly.
Neville pushed himself to his knees, face angled towards the ground so that Percy couldn't see the blood and tears. Especially the tears. ("Boys don't cry, Neville; you're nothing but a whining coward")
Strong fingers wrapped themselves around Neville's arms and pulled him up to his feet. Neville kept his eyes on the floor.
"You're bleeding," Percy said, reaching into his pocket for his wand with one hand as he grabbed Neville's chin with the other, angling his face up so that Percy could heal the wound.
Pointing his wand at Neville's face, Percy enunciated some Latin that Neville didn't understand, and suddenly the blood stopped flowing, the wound sealing itself without a scar. But the blood already on Neville's face continued to drip down into his mouth. Metallic, and almost sweet.
As soon as Percy released his grip, Neville, embarrassed, stared down at the ground, eyes seeing the cracks in the stone, but registering nothing.
The movement must have caught the washed-out light in his tears, the sheen of water standing out against dead grey, for Percy said, "What's wrong?" Then paused, his eyes scanning Neville's face as though he was trying to remember... "Neville, isn't it?"
Neville nodded, confirming his name, but his voice only came out as a whispered stutter: "T-Trevor..."
"Your frog?" Percy asked, before correcting himself. "No, he's a toad, eh? Is he lost again?"
Neville could only nod, the rest of his energy spent trying the keep the embarrassed flush from forming in his cheeks ("Yes, Percy, again. No one else has problems like this. Maybe Trevor has the right idea").
"Well, let's see if we can find him, then." Percy said, his voice somehow exuding energy. "Does he have any usual hiding places, Neville?"
"Neville managed to stammer a response out. "N-No, he could be anywhere." ("Don't break down now, Neville; not in front of your prefect.")
Percy turned away from Neville, scanning the room in his methodical fashion. Neville attempted to add his eyes to the scan, his chaotic technique yielding nothing but more panic when it turned up nothing.
Percy's scan must have revealed nothing as well, for his eyes stopped moving, his hand going to his chin. "Well, toads are cold-blooded, eh? Which would mean that he'd need somewhere warm to sit, right? So, where would he be?" Percy scanned the room a second time, his eyes looking for what Neville assumed to be the warmest spot in the room. "Well, since the entrance to the Gryffindor common room is towards the centre of the castle, he'd be there, right? Because the opposite wall is the only thing that keeps the cold outside, and stone isn't a very good insulator, so he'd probably be by the portrait." Percy said, striding off towards the door, where he bent down, his hands closing around something, then straightening, and turning, a small grin forming on his lips.
"Trevor!" Neville exclaimed, his outburst of relief causing him to forget himself, rushing up to Percy, narrowly avoiding tripping on the couch in which Percy had been sleeping in his exuberance before he reached Percy, his hands reaching out and taking Trevor carefully from Percy's outstretched hands.
"Thank you, Percy. Thank you so much."
Percy blushed slightly. "You're welcome, Neville. Why don't you head back up to bed so you can get some sleep for class tomorrow?"
"Okay" Neville responded, heading up to bed, nearly bouncing on the steps. It was only when he reached his bed that he realised he didn't know why Percy had slept down there in the first place.
* * * * *
"People say love when something makes them feel good, like chocolate, feeling it melt over their taste buds, savouring the taste like they do with love. They obsess over the emotions it produces, the happy smiles and laughter, sensual bliss and ecstasy.
"Love is defined by the effect it has on you. You love a person the way you love a movie, rating it with a number of stars based on how it made you feel.
"And if the movie isn't as advertised, you walk out of the theatre, and get a divorce."
* * * * *
Neville always had trouble falling asleep. As soon as he closed his eyes, memories and thoughts would flash through his mind, each demanding his undivided attention for a few moments before being replaced by a new thought that demanded--and received--his mind.
"Percy," he whispered as a memory of him played across his mind.
Percy had an effect on him, like Trevor, only so much greater, heat going straight to the heart, so hot it almost burned its way through his veins to his toes, fingers and brain, his entire body tingling from the fire. And when Percy smiled at him, his bottom lip curling snugly under his front teeth, Neville could feel the heat spreading through the capillaries until it filled him, gutting out all sorrow with its intensity.
But, sometimes, when he thought about Percy, the heat didn't start in his heart, but his groin. Instead of spreading, pumped outwards, it was focused and intense, a searing heat that enveloped him, but only heated the rest of his body by proxy; it left him drenched with effort-induced sweat that, like the heat spread by his heart, was done by pumping.
This was one of the latter times.
Even after it, though, congealed sweat and semen cooling against his still-hot skin, Neville couldn't sleep, his thoughts spiralling out of his control, settling always on Percy. Neville couldn't help but notice that Percy paid more attention to him than he did to his own brothers ("But, then, Percy doesn't get along so well with his brothers, does he? But how could anyone not like Percy?"). He couldn't help but fantasize that Percy felt the same way from the small smiles that Percy gave him in the halls, the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) hints to homework questions that Neville didn't understand, and, sometimes, when they were the first ones awake in the morning, a walk around the Hogwarts grounds ("This is just like you, Neville, so desperate for a friend and love that you project your own feelings onto someone else, when they see you as no more than an acquaintance to pass the time with. He could have any girl he wanted; why would he want an ugly thirteen year old boy like you?").
Sighing, Neville wiped the remaining liquid off his stomach, some of it sticking where it had dried against his skin, and put on his pyjamas so he could walk down to the common room, his practiced footsteps quiet against the stones of the castle ("until you trip and fall like you always do, Neville"). But, this time, anyway, Neville's feet didn't fail him as he left the chambers and went down the stairs. As he reached the bottom, he saw a figure sitting with his back turned to Neville, his head angled downward, obviously reading a book that Neville couldn't see. The perfectly groomed curly hair (grey in the washed out light) could only belong to one person.
"Percy?" Neville whispered, but obviously loud enough for Percy to hear as he turned quickly, the muscles in his face tense until he recognised Neville, and forced a fatigued smile onto his face.
"What are you doing up, Neville? Is Trevor--"
"No, Trevor is asleep. I just..." Neville trailed off before finishing his sentence in a half-truth. "I just couldn't sleep."
Percy nodded, and Neville cursed himself for his selfishness as he hastened to add "what about you, Percy? What are you doing up?"
Percy paused for a second before answering. "I needed to study more for the NEWTS; they're in a month, and I have to be ready for them."
"But aren't you already at the top of your class, Percy?"
"These are important, Neville. If I get a good enough level on the NEWTS, I'll have headway into the world. There's so much competition out there; if I'm not on top, I could suddenly end up on the bottom."
Neville wanted to unleash a tempest of praise to wash over Percy, telling him how amazing, intelligent and kind he is ("And how sexy he is? That you love him? So that he could laugh at you for the pathetic little faggot that you are?" -- "Percy wouldn't do that!" -- "But it's the truth, Neville").
Neville settled for something imbetween. "You're a great person, Percy, and you're never going to be anything less than great to me." Neville hadn't meant to add the 'to me' part, and he shut his mouth before anything else could come out.
Percy seemed to be pleasantly embarrassed by the words, though, as he blushed with a smile, almost unsure of how to respond to the compliment ("But Percy probably hears things like this all the time. How could anyone as amazing as Percy not hear it?")
Finally, when Percy spoke, his trembling voice said "Thank you, Neville. That means a lot to me," and smiled again, shyly.
Neither of them said anything afterwards. The silence was awkward, yet contented, both happy with what was said but under the expectation that they should say more.
Neville stopped looking at Percy and trained his eyes on the floor.
Finally, when Neville excused himself, saying that Percy probably had to get back to his studying, he walked up the stairs to his bed, and fell asleep quickly, his body warm.
Two months later, when Percy graduated (top of his class), Neville attended his ceremony. When Percy went up to receive his diploma, he turned and waved with a smile to his parents, then turned to Neville and smiled, then waved.
The heat of the smile went straight to Neville's heart, where it was pumped out to his fingers, making them tingle.
* * * * *
"When you do something for someone you say you love, it's because it makes you feel good. Because you get a warm, fuzzy feeling deep inside that you made the person feel good. Or because you're afraid of them being angry at you.
"It's selfish. Love isn't about feeling good. If you loved someone, you'd face up to Cerberus, and be afraid, fear literally reeking from your body, pheromones stronger than any perfume, permeating the air around you. And, when Cerberus bites down, your last thoughts would be of fear, terror and searing agony, burning through your nerves as the sharp teeth, infinitely sharper than any razor, cleave you cleanly in two, the wound so fine that it would never cauterize, but doing it anywany, and craving death so long as the one you love would be spared, even for a moment--for an infinitesimal chance at life.
"And that never happens outside of fairy tales."
* * * * *
Neville didn't bother to look up when the owls fluttered in. No, fluttered wasn't the right word; the owls stormed in, hooting, wings beating madly to reach their destination faster than any of the others, claws waiting for any owl that got in its way. The only things that fluttered were the feathers that wafted to the ground after being cruelly ripped from bodies, heads, and wings.
It was the first day of the school year, so the first years looked on in awe at the sight. It had only frightened him in his first year--aggressive and dangerous--and it held no awe for him now--he just saw the petty squabbling that almost defined Hogwarts. And it wasn't as though he expected a letter--the only one he had received at Hogwarts was the howler in his third year, and he didn't think that he had done anything to deserve a howler ("yet, anyway").
That's why Neville was surprised when a dark owl landed in front of him, its feathers ruffled, its wings settling slowly against its body as it fought to keep its balance from what had apparently been an exhausting flight.
Once it had regained its balance, it offered the letter wrapped around its leg to Neville. Taking it, Neville saw his name on the front of it in an elegant script. Trembling, Neville's fingers opened the letter, so excited that he eyes scarcely read the words as he looked over the letter.
Neville,
since Albus has already told you about the Triwizard tournament, I suppose it's okay to tell you this...
I'm going to be helping out with the second challenge, which means that I'll be at Hogwarts soon.
I guess... I just thought that you might want to know.
-Percy
Neville wrote back on the other side of the letter that he was excited that Percy was coming back, and was looking forward to seeing him, and then wrapped it around Errol's leg before sending him back to Percy.
While Neville was writing, Errol had eaten all of his breakfast.
Neville never noticed.
- - - - -
February winds whipped Neville's robe into his face, and Neville almost welcomed it, welcomed it protecting his face from the wind and the cold that sucked the heat away from his body like a vacuum.
But Neville didn't welcome it now, when it caught him in mid-stride, off-balance, and sent him spiralling to the ground, the light snow on the ground softening the impact ("It's a good thing you're fat, Neville; all these impacts would have killed you without the extra padding").
Neville could hear laughter from what he assumed was behind him, since he couldn't see, and didn't even know which way he had been walking in the first place. Apparently, his fall had not gone unnoticed.
"It's amazing how you can still trip over your own feet when they're that small, Neville." Draco's voice. No one else's voice would taunt like that, drawing out the words so that he could feel the sneer in each one, even if he couldn't see Draco's face. "Of course, you know what they say about men with small feet--but, then, you're hardly a man, are you, Longbottom?" The last word was especially drawn out. An insult unto itself.
"Leave him alone, Draco" a voice called, almost familiar, but in a tone never associated with that familiar voice--anger.
"What are you going to do about it, Percy?" Haughty. And, like the wind, sucking the heat away.
"The NEWTS did involve a practical Defence Against the Dark Arts examination, you know." Haughty back. Or maybe just confident. The line was blurred. It was hard, nevertheless.
Neville heard a rustle of robes, and could only assume that Percy had drawn his wand.
"You're playing in dangerous territory, Percy. One game up makes you vulnerable." Embarrassed anger, all the more potent for the humiliation.
Footsteps stomped against the snow, crunching its individual white flakes into a solid mass formed in the shape of a shoe.
Neville managed to free himself from his robes in time to see a flash of red cheek against the whitedrop of snow before Draco disappeared.
"Neville, I'm sorry this..." Percy trailed off, his hands gesturing to the battleground around them. He wanted to say more, but couldn't. Instead, he walked over to Neville, and helped him up.
Neville wanted to say more, too; he wanted to say how much he missed him ("dreamed about him, loved him, but he probably hasn't spent a single moment thinking about you").
Percy's hands didn't stop fidgeting until he finally put them at his sides, hard. ("He's uncomfortable around you, Neville. And who wouldn't be? Who'd want to be around you?") Finally, Percy found his voice. "I've missed you, Neville."
"I-I've missed you too, Percy." Neville's cheeks went red around the words.
Percy smiled.
"So... Do you want to go into Hogsmeade, Neville?"
Neville grinned, his lips going up until they blended with his red cheeks. "Sure," he said.
- - - - -
Most people, when talking about their work get egotistical, saying that 'I do this,' trying to show some inherent superiority, or they try to downplay their work, if it's embarrassing--people like talking about themselves, and, once Percy started talking, he didn't seem to stop, but Percy's conversation was different. It wasn't that he wanted to put on a good image of himself, or impress Neville: he genuinely thought what he was doing was interesting, and of benefit to the people he cared about--it wasn't egotistical at all--if someone else started talking about something that was important to them, Percy would listen just as attentively as Neville was to him.
"I finished my report on cauldron bottoms, and it's actually quite interesting," Percy said as they walked towards Hogsmeade, his words, usually almost clumsy, flowing quickly from one into another. "Most people think that cauldron thickness is unimportant, but what people don't realise is that a weak cauldron can melt easily, spilling the potion all over a workbench, potentially ruining months of work and expensive supplies. Why take that risk? You know about the flying furball incident of 1352, right?" Neville didn't know, but he gathered enough information from the name that he nodded, allowing Percy to continue. "Well, that was caused by a weak cauldron, the potion melting out of the side, just where Francisco's familiar had coughed up a hairball. And what was the result? An entire section of the village destroyed when there was nothing wrong with the potion--only the cauldron--and the same thing could happen at any time with another weak one."
Percy fell silent after his speech, as though, after talking about his work, he was unsure of what to say ("as though no one's ever listened to him before, so now he's unsure of what to do"). Neville hesitated, then tried to add to the conversation. "I once... ummm... well, I melted a cauldron in Potions class, once."
Glad for an opportunity, Percy responded. "Exactly! I'll bet it was an imported cauldron from a wizard community that isn't as magically developed as we are, and so they're trying to build up an industry by selling inferior products at a cheap price. Standards have to be maintained for safety."
Neville looked up at Percy, and smiled. "I'd never thought about it that way. I always thought I had done something wrong, like I always do in potions."
"Not at all, Neville. That was probably the cauldron, and out of your control." Percy smiled, brilliantly, his teeth a white streak above his lower lip. "So, how about some ice cream?"
Neville giggled, then attempted to say something that came out as a garbled mess of laughter and tears before finally bringing himself somewhat under control. "In winter?"
"Sure. I mean, why not? The ice cream is really good. Besides, it's my treat." Percy smiled again, finally laughing as Neville tried and failed to produce a coherent sentence, managing only monosyllabic nonsense. "Okay, so maybe it's not one of my best ideas. Is there anywhere else you want to go, Neville?"
Percy had to wait a while for his response. "No, ice cream is fine. And, Percy? Thank you."
Percy smiled. "You're welcome."
- - - - -
Walking down the steps of Hlaforde Forheawen's Fantastically Fabulous Magical Treats, ice-creams in hand (and, in Neville's case, on lips, nose and cheek), Neville and Percy fell into a contented silence as they followed their feet towards the outskirts of Hogsmeade, both intent on eating the wonderful treats in front of them (at least, Neville assumed Percy's ice cream was wonderful by his intense eating; Neville had serious doubts about the taste of any ice-cream called Slimy Salmon--it even looked gross, the shiny grey matter literally slurped down Percy's throat. Neville had gone for the more ordinary Super Strawberry Shortcake. Besides, he liked the alliteration.
Percy must have noticed that Neville was looking at him, as he looked back, laughing when he saw Neville's face covered with ice cream. "Neville, you have it all over your face, and it's melting down your cheeks in rivers."
Neville blushed, and pulled on the napkin that was wrapped around his cone, desperate to wipe the food off his face to look good for Percy. The napkin, however, was stuck under his thick fingers, and, manoeuvring to release it, Neville let go of the cone, dropping it to the ground where the wafer shattered, the pink ice cream slowly diffusing into the snow.
"I'm sorry, Percy, I didn't mean to, I--"
Percy cut him off, gently. "Don't worry about it, Neville. Here, you can have mine." He said, handing out the shiny grey lump of a cone to Neville. Neville could have sworn he saw that grey lump move as it hung in front of him.
Percy must have seen his face, for he laughed, then dropped his cone on top of Neville's, the lump of grey slithering over the pink snow until it found level ground.
"See?" Percy said, laughing. "No harm done."
Neville laughed with him, feeling the infectious warmth of Percy's laughter spread through his body until it became everything, and Neville, overcome by the emotion, hugged Percy close, feeling the heat from Percy's body against his.
Percy went rigid and tense at the touch, his arms clasped against his thighs, so hard that Neville could have thought that he was in a full-body bind spell. Could have thought that he was in a full body-bind spell, if he didn't know that it was his touch that did it.
Releasing Percy, Neville sank backwards, watching as Percy became less rigid, but did not relax.
"I'm sorry, Percy, I-I..."
"Don't worry about it, Neville," Percy said.
But, this time, Percy didn't mean it.
* * * * *
"It has almost become a truism that love and hate are not opposites--that intense feelings are similar, creating a connection between the two people that hate so they can slide as easily into love as people in love can slide into hate, like the hatred of one spouse for the other when they come back to find their spouse in bed with another person.
"But that was never love. That kind of love is like the love you have for your car when, in cold weather, you put your keys in the ignition, turn, and it starts--it's the joy you receive when one of your possessions works the way it should.
"And that's not love. That's ownership."
* * * * *
Neville hadn't seen Percy since the incident at Hogsmeade, with that awkward farewell as Neville went to walk back to the castle through the flying snow that melted against his skin, though Neville wondered how his skin could possibly be any warmer than the snow itself.
Now Neville lay in bed, trying to get to sleep.
Neville knew that hypnotists always put their patients to sleep by telling them that their eyelids were getting heavy, but that didn't describe this exhaustion at all.
This exhaustion was just behind the eyes where, after passing through the pupil, the light struck and scorched its image against the retina.
It was his retina that was exhausted, tired of seeing, of having that hateful light burn it as he went through his day. But even at night he couldn't escape the unavoidable memories that were branded onto his retina, playing a movie where he couldn't blink or turn away, his eyes drying up from the lack of moisture.
Neville had heard that cosmetics were tested on rabbits because they couldn't blink, so the scientists could judge how long it took to peel off the cornea, how long it took until the rabbits started clawing at their eyes, desperate to stop the pain.
Neville felt just as helpless.
Because of this, snatches of sleep, stolen from the Sandman at great effort were all that Neville had managed for the last two months, and he was exhausted.
He was lucky, though, that the final task of the Triwizard Tournament was tomorrow, because everyone was so caught up in it that no one would notice his exhaustion, and, in the excitement leading up to it, no one had noticed his walking-dead manner for the past two months ("not like anyone would notice anyway, Neville").
But, really, Neville had never wanted to be noticed. He could never understand how someone like Ron wanted to be world famous, doing Great Deeds--acts of such courage that women swooned over his feet like they used to for Lockhart. His anonymity was his Walden Pond, where he could find himself without trouble from the outside world.
("You mean to tell me that you didn't enjoy first year, Neville, when you won the ten points for Gryffindor, and there was the outpouring of emotion for you... are you telling me that you didn't enjoy it?"--"No, but it was all fleeting and temporary. Next year, who cared? No one. It's like Thomas Gray said, 'The paths of glory lead but to the grave.'"--"So do the paths of love, Neville.")
- - - - -
Percy had written, once, telling Neville that he was now one of the judges on the panel, because Crouch wasn't well and trusted Percy enough to let him take his place.
Neville had written back, saying that he was ecstatic for Percy, and that he was sure Percy would do a great job in place of Crouch.
Neither of them mentioned the possibility of meeting the other.
- - - - -
The sun slowly rose, throwing a gold and scarlet blanket over the stars, covering them, hiding them from Neville, who had spent the night staring at them, sleepless, his eyes focusing on the stars intently, knowing that if his concentration lapsed, the memory-reel movies would play inescapably.
As the stars disappeared, Neville arbitrarily decided that it was time to get up, and groggily pushed himself out of bed, tottering uneasily as the exhaustion-induced vertigo struck him. Neville's hand groped for the bed to steady him, but missed, and he fell back on top of the bed, pinning his arm beneath his body.
Fighting the urge to groan so he wouldn't wake everyone, Neville rolled over and lay there, eyes closed, listening to the light sounds of his roommates breathing in their sleep (except for Seamus, who, as Dean was fond of reminding him, snored so loudly that it had to be the result of a sonic boom somewhere in his body).
But the breathing of his roommates wasn't the only way he was aware of them--Neville could smell the thick odour coming off each of them, teenage boys who hadn't washed since last morning, and other, muskier smells, indicative of the hormones and loneliness experienced by all the members of his room.
The smells, however, were diluted by the weak breeze that blew through the cracks around the window by Neville's bed as the wind played lightly against his face, pressing gently on his cheek, smelling, despite the height of the room, of sweet grass and flowers and, somewhat fainter than the grass and flowers, the more putrid stenches coming from the quidditch pitch, where the maze was being set up, and Neville could only assume that the smells were from some of the nastier creatures that Hagrid kept, and was going to use in the maze. But Neville didn't seem to be the only thing affected by the smell--the birds, usually heard singing loudly, chirping for a mate in the spring to nest with, were silent, as though they, too, could sense the presence of a predator.
Neville opened his eyes and looked out the window for any sign of the birds in the trees. There were no signs. Instead, he saw that the sun had almost finished rising, its earlier scarlet hue softened to a warm orange, its rays caressing Neville's face with its warm touch, wrapping him into a cocoon of orange light until Neville almost felt that he could merge with the light, his body becoming part of it as his smells merged with those of the grass, the trees, the flowers, and the more putrid aroma of Hagrid's creatures, while his touch melded with the wind, gently pressing against everything with the slightest pressure of its weight, and the taste of his skin would meld with the ground, sprouting up in the fruit and vegetables that were picked when ripe. Everything about him would meld into nature except the sound of his voice, his breathing, which would eventually recede when the birds came out again, merging with their songs, and Neville would be swallowed up by the totality of nature, as though he was cremated, and his ashes spread to the wind, everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
- - - - -
Neville had, like everyone, felt that something was wrong. There was a mutual intake of breath as Harry and Cedric reached for the Cup. Some people had purchased a map which told them the location of all the wizards competing for the Cup, and they had seen the dots named Harry and Cedric blink, then disappear, but, either they were spread sufficiently through the stadium that everyone picked up on the trouble from them, or there was some subtle shift in the magical energy around Hogwarts that everyone felt, even if they didn't have the talent to know what caused the feeling.
Something had gone wrong.
It had taken Neville hours to discover what exactly was wrong, trying to listen in on any conversation between people of importance, or even anyone who might know more than he did.
He heard the most awful rumours: that Voldemort had risen and killed Harry and Cedric, then transfigured himself into Harry so he could return to Hogwarts unnoticed; that Voldemort had pierced the defences of Hogwarts and distributed a virus that would kill them all in five hours; but the most horrible rumour of all came from Seamus, who told Dean that Harry and Cedric had been port-keyed to an island with a thousand naked virgins, to which Dean asked if Harry and Cedric were required to change their diapers every hour.
But Neville knew that they were just trying to deal with the stress the only way they knew how--it was obvious that something had gone wrong.
- - - - -
It had taken Neville hours to discover, in the remotest sense of the word, what had actually happened--that Crouch senior had been abducted by his son, the death-eater, and had attempted to kidnap Harry for a diabolical purpose, probably revenge for Harry's defeat of You-Know-Who.
Neville's mind went immediately to Percy, who had been so jubilant to be appointed a judge, so overjoyed that someone trusted him enough to let him fill such an important position, and to find out that he had been duped, a naive innocent manipulated into aiding a miscreant scheme...
Exhaustion and months of sleepless nights forgotten, Neville ran.
- - - - -
He found Percy just inside the forest at the edge of the lake, huddled in a ball, resembling more of a zygote than a foetus.
"It's all my fault," he whispered as Neville approached, somehow managing to hear Neville's footsteps through his ears that were deafened by self-blame.
"No. It's not." Neville said, his voice quiet despite the thundering emotions that rumbled inside.
Percy didn't respond; he only huddled tighter into a ball.
Neville, hesitantly, moved closer to Percy, then, against everything rational in him, he went down to the ground beside Percy, and put his arms around him, wrapping himself around Percy like a cocoon, enveloping Percy in his warmth.
To his surprise, Percy leaned into the heat of Neville's touch, and cried until he was exhausted, and they both slept.
* * * * *
"And even if those problems were transcended...
"How could anyone possibly be in love? I wouldn't even have been able to tell if you had been replaced by a twin who acted like you, by an actor drinking polyjuice every hour, or by a robot that mimicked your every action.
"How could anyone possibly say the words 'I love you,' when they can never know what they're saying it to? When I could wake up beside a robot instead of the person I had whispered 'I love you' to the night before, and never know the difference?
"No, there's only one conclusion, Percy. Love is nothing more than a lie."
* * * * *
Neville hadn't seen Percy since that night, but they had exchanged letters frequently. Percy had done his best for the war effort the only way he knew--organization and intellect. Wizards had always been Malthusians, leaving each person to handle their own business, and Percy had to work his hardest to convince other governments to lend a hand in the struggle against Voldemort.
Of course, it didn't help that some of the more conservative governments had sympathies with Voldemort, believing that muggles really were the inferiors of wizards. Indeed, Neville thought that, if Voldemort had made a political party and pursued his goal peacefully with the same kind of emotional fervour that he pursued the war, he'd have won the government and would have been able to institutionalize his plan. At least, Neville thought that in his more cynical moments.
Neville himself hadn't been just sitting around watching the war, though. He knew he'd never be able to fight in it like the other Gryffindors, hexes and charms in intense duels that would leave Neville dead, but he aided in the way that he could--in the greenhouse, trying to keep a steady supply of the ingredients necessary for the potions that people required on the front lines, whether it be for healing or for killing. He had also discovered, much to his surprise, that he had a slight ability in restorative magics, and, when the plants were tended to, he would be found in the infirmary, helping out with the wounded wizards, and sometimes the muggles who were hit in the crossfire.
But this war was different from most others. In most wars, the battle-lines are drawn, one side or the other, each one garnished with splendid colours, and the battle is fought with your brothers on one side and the enemy on the other.
In this war, there were no safe places behind the lines. Hogwarts was the safest place there was, and that was only because Voldemort was afraid of attacking it until he had amassed enough power to match the gathering of wizards that Dumbledore had managed to bring to the cause. Nowhere else was safe. The war pitted neighbour against neighbour, where everyone publicly pledged support for the ministry. How could you tell a death eater apart from a regular person? You could tell one only when they pointed their wands at you and spoke the two words that ended your life, your last moments tinted by green smoke. That is, unless they felt like torturing you first, leaving you screaming, huddled on the floor until you can't remember anything, not even that you exist, while they stand over you, and laugh.
Even family was pitted against family, with members turning against their own, aurors killed during a brief stint of relaxation by their own children or spouses. Yes, the battle lines were very often drawn across families, with each family turning to one side or another, but the tales of betrayal made everyone afraid to let their guard down around anyone.
It seemed as though the entire population of Wizarding Britain was ready to collapse from the stress, living entirely on the hope that someday it would be over, that someday everything bright and beautiful in the world would bloom after the seemingly eternal winter.
When the war was finally finished (wars of this kind are never won), people were lost, unsure of how to rebuild their lives. After working at Hogwarts through the war, Neville had decided that he wanted to get away completely, to escape from all the mental triggers Hogwarts held for him, memories so vivid that Neville couldn't think of the castle without them. He couldn't visit the infirmary without hearing the weak, almost suppressed moans, the wizards wanting to be quiet, to be strong, but failing miserably; without seeing the dead and mangled bodies, limbs twisted and snapped from half-evaded spells, and sightless eyes, blackened and burned from fireballs; without smelling the scent of cooked meat, reminding him of chicken, wafting through the room, moist and slightly sweet. Because of it, Neville couldn't even look at meat anymore, let alone eat it--even the smell of meat would bring back the memories, plunging his mind down into its darkest depths, clawing futilely at the walls of his mind for escape while his body curled up into a ball, the memories still playing, having burned through his eyes and his retina--burning straight into his brain.
In his attempt to avoid the plague of memories Neville decided to join the ministry ("but you never can fully escape them, can you, Neville?"). The ministry was looking for more herbologists to help replenish the stocks of magical life that were depleted during the war. Each side had done whatever it could to acquire an advantage, and the native plants had been destroyed in everyone's attempts to build more potions. Some species that were native only to Great Britain were almost wiped out, and Herbologists were required to supervise their reintroduction.
Neville, however, didn't know where he'd be working when he arrived at the ministry (through floo powder, of course--he had never been good enough at spells to take the apparition test). But, when he arrived, he was startled by the constant swirl of work already started, people spending everything they had in order to re-establish the order that the war had destroyed.
Neville, brushing the dirt from himself, was whisked away by a woman, black hair ruffled and unkempt, who said her name so fast that Neville couldn't catch it before she mumbled something that Neville could only half hear about nature. Finally, they arrived at a door, the same as all the others, and she went in. Neville was about to follow when he heard what was said.
"Percy, you'll be working with this man to work on reintroducing magical plants, okay? You'll need to work with other governments to import some of the plants, and you handle that while he handles the specifics about the plants, okay?" She said, and then, without waiting for a response she rushed out of the room, her hair flying behind her in an attempt to keep up with her body.
Neville stood there, frozen by the name that she had said until he heard Percy's voice saying "Um... hello?" and he cursed himself for being so stupid, frozen for a crush on a boy he hadn't seen in the seven years since the war started. They had kept writing letters, yes, but Neville was an idiot for maintaining this hopeless crush.
He walked into the room, scarcely big enough for the both of them, and said "Hi, Percy. Ummm... how are you?"
Percy stared for a second, his face unreadable to Neville. "N-Neville? I-I'm good. How are you?"
Neville tried to keep his mind from doing back-flips from the knowledge that Percy recognised him, but Neville almost didn't recognise Percy, who, always thin, had lost more weight during the war, and now almost looked as though he belonged on a advertisement for starving children. But Neville watched as the warm smile spread across Percy's face, darkened eyes gaining back the light that Neville always associated with them, that shining warmth that Percy always shared with him.
"You look good, Neville."
"You always have, Percy." ("Idiotic, moronic imbecile!")
Percy blushed at the words, and the embarrassment seemed to make him suddenly realise where he was. "So, ummm... I've received a list of all the plants that we need immediately; some, like the Rampaging Rose, will probably be difficult to receive, so we can wait until later to start on them."
Neville gave the hint of a smile. "Actually, Percy, the Rampaging Rose is relatively harmless--it's just that, like its muggle counterpart, it has thorns, which the person who discovered it wasn't aware of until after she found it. What you really have to be careful of is the Innocent Iris--it's called innocent because it has just enough self-awareness to realise that other beings exist, and not enough to realise that its smell can kill the people who stop to sniff it."
Percy's face flushed as Neville corrected him. "I'm sorry, Neville. I guess my knowledge of plants slipped during the war, when I didn't have time to keep up. I promise that I'll be up to date by tomorrow."
"Percy... you've already worked so hard. I can see it in your face. There's a reason we're working together on this--you can't do or know everything. If you try, you'll end up with a smattering of knowledge in a whole bunch of things, but never enough to actually be able to creatively work in the field. That's why we need to work together." ("Oh, yes, spread the sentimental claptrap, Neville. Why don't you quote Aristotle next--'what is a friend but a single soul dwelling in two bodies'? Or tell him about true love, where people live happily ever after as the woman grows old, and her Prince Charming leaves for some other young beauty.")
Percy almost seemed to ignore the words, but Neville knew that he had heard them from the strained look in his eyes.
"It doesn't work, Neville. Just paying attention to one thing, and ignoring everything else, thinking that some other person will take care of it. Everything has repercussions, has consequences, good and bad. Discovering something new can upset the very way people look at the world, and it's an egoistic person who assumes that everyone will react to information the way they do--or that everyone should react that way. Everything is interconnected through little webs, and each person--each living being--is a joint in that web--is the place where a great number of strings meet. Sever but one of those strings, and the web is weakened. You can sever hundreds, maybe even thousands of those strings to no ill effect, but, once you've severed too many, the entire network collapses. Trying to arbitrarily decide that you belong to this or that, and that other people can take care of the others is ripping your strings from certain joints, and the web is weaker for it."
Neville was left speechless for a few moments as he tried to digest this.
"So you're saying that everything interconnected, but why can't things be connected like an ecosystem, where all individual things work to regulate the system? Where a reduction of carbon dioxide causes less plants to grow, and therefore the increase of carbon dioxide as the number of animals increases, which causes more plants to grow, and therefore reduces the amount of carbon dioxide. Everything can have a single goal that adds to the whole, Percy. You manage strings that aren't yours to manage. You've done so much, but you don't need to anymore. Let someone else do something for once."
Percy paused at the words, thinking them over, letting them sigh, and settle. "I wish I could believe you, Neville. But what if you're wrong? What if I sever all my strings and don't realise until it's too late? What if everything collapses, leaving us with nothing? I can't risk it, Neville. I can't risk that kind of overhaul. There's safety in the way things are. You know that, as long as they stay the way they are, nothing worse can happen." Percy's body tightened as he spoke, the anxiety of the thoughts sending adrenaline through his system, and his long fingers clutched at his knees, turning both white.
Neville saw the tension, and searched madly through his mind for something to say, to help Percy achieve the happiness he so deserved. Finally, words coming into his mind, he spoke, his arms going around Percy in an attempt to block out the anxiety that had worked its way into Percy's heart. "Sometimes a little bit of pain is for the best, Percy. The growing pains you experienced as a child left you as the beautiful man that you are." ("Sottish, oafish, doltish, blockish, foolish idiot!")
Waiting for the rejection that he knew would come, Neville saw Percy stare into his eyes for what seemed an eternity, and then lean forward, putting his lips against Neville's in the gentlest caress, sending heat down through Neville's body.
It took Neville a long time to realise that he was supposed to kiss Percy back.
* * * * *
"Percy, it's all a lie. Can't you see? Just a lie that we tell ourselves because we don't want to face the truth; it's flat out denial when the proof is right in front of us, and we're closing our eyes because we don't want to see it.
"Love is nothing more than selfishness, than hedonistic pleasure with a nice psychological label that makes us feel good about ourselves.
"If there's one thing the world has taught me, Percy, it's that there's no such thing as love."
"Neville? Are you okay? Whom are you talking to?"
"Oh, g-good morning, Percy. I-I couldn't sleep--my mind kept racing--and so I decided to come out here and watch the sun rise. I was just talking to myself--thinking, you know?"
"Well, we've still got two hours before we have to go to work, Neville, so... ummm... I was wondering maybe if... we-we could go back to bed? I... I like feeling your arms around me... feeling your warmth spread into me... it-it makes me feel... wanted."
"You are wanted, Percy." Neville said as he followed Percy back inside.
("You're happy having me here, Percy. You're happy in my arms and giving you that happiness sends a warmth straight to my heart where it's spread outward, through veins, arteries and capillaries until my entire body is filled with it, gutting out the sorrow through its flame, and maybe...
"Maybe... being happy when you're happy--when I make you happy...
"Maybe... that's enough.")