i.
Neville squeezes his eyes shut against the sunlight turned technicolour by the stained glass window, not that it helps much because with his eyes closed all he can see is the gigantic spider twitching and shrieking. For some reason all he can think about is the worn-out sound of his mother's voice murmuring her endless litany of gibberish. Gradually, he realises that closing his eyes does no good because he's going to cry anyway and moreover the voice he's hearing is really Hermione, concerned. For a single wonderfully horrible moment he thinks he might actually be poised about to tell everyone everything, but then he is interrupted by a rough hand on his shoulder and his new professor telling him come along son, we'll have tea. No one's ever actually called him 'son' before and he finds that he cannot resist trailing along in the ex-Auror's hobbling wake.
Professor Moody seems flustered when they arrive, searches around almost frantically though his scattered possessions looking for a teapot. "I shouldn't have done that, I really shouldn't have, such a risk, had no right," he says, almost to himself, then seems to remember that Neville's there. He twitches. His good eye is wide, alarmed; he moistens his lips, reaches for his flask. "Merlin, Neville," he breathes. "I'm sorry."
Neville sniffles. "'s all right," he begins, and then realises that he's crying. He wonders if the professor's going to scold him for it like his Gran would, but the other man doesn't even seem to notice.
"Can still hear them screaming sometimes," confesses the professor. Neville is puzzled until he remembers that this, this is the Auror who found his parents. His body shakes with a sudden silent sob.
"I'm sorry, son," says the professor. Neville's eyes are closed, but he's pretty sure that the professor is crying too. He is surprised when he feels arms wrapping around him until he remembers that this is what people do in stories when someone is grieving and distraught; no one has ever done it for him before and he realises that he's pretty sure he likes being comforted, likes the stream of apologies and the paternal way the professor's stroking his hair. Professor Lupin didn't do this any of the times he cried in his office, thinks Neville, and then he suddenly wishes he would have done.
"There, lad," Moody says once Neville's sobs have stilled to nothing more than the occasional hiccough. "Almost time for dinner, son. You shouldn't be late," he announces and Neville gives him a wide-eyed nod, gets unsteadily to his feet.
"Here, before you go – Pomona says you might like this. Your father would have," says Moody, sounding almost businesslike as he hands the book to Neville.
"Thanks," whispers the boy.
The book falls open to a dog-eared page and Neville can't help but read the entry about Gillyweed before rushing off to dinner.
ii.
Harry and Ron are having an argument and Neville doesn't quite understand why, but then he supposes that he doesn't need to, really. With Ron absent and Hermione desperately trying to orchestrate the inevitable reconciliation, Neville seems to be Harry's default companion. And Neville doesn't mind this; on the contrary, he likes having Harry all to himself. He just wishes that he always knew what to say and he wishes he were interesting. He wishes he understood why all of a sudden everyone's started worrying about girls and he thinks it's funny, because he can talk to girls just fine but Harry makes him inexplicably nervous.
After Herbology, Harry and Neville go wading in the lake. It's funny, Neville thinks, because he's at home in the water but Harry is unsteady, unsure, nervous. The lake-bottom is slippery and Harry slips, once, would have fallen but Neville is thinking clearly for once and reflexively reaches out and grabs Harry's hands, steadies them both. They remain posed like that for a long moment before Neville realises that it's time to let go and Harry splashes back to the shoreline. For some reason, all of this sticks in Neville's mind.
He is almost glad when Harry and Ron reconcile, because then he can stop being nervous about pretending to be interesting. Neville dances alone to music that doesn't exist when he knows that no one's looking. He smiles at Ginny Weasley over breakfast and on Wednesdays takes tea with Professor Moody.
"What would you do, faced with a dragon, son," the professor asks.
"Suppose I'd run, sir," Neville replies and the professor laughs.
"I wish I could tell you that you're thinking like an Auror," he says, "but you've done one better. No room for honesty at the Minstry, is there?"
"Is that why you're here, sir?" He poses the question politely, sips at his tea.
The professor's sudden smirk looks out of place, as if it belongs to someone else entirely. "I do believe it is," he says, moistening his lips.
iii.
Neville watches the ripples on the lake and wonders why he had to show off talking about gillyweed, why he never taught Harry how to swim and if Harry dies it'll be all his fault, of course, and Ginny will never forgive him. The upside of this worrying is that it manages to crowd out the other thoughts about Harry not caring about plants, about Harry not caring about him.
He's pretty sure that this is the longest hour in his life, worse than the time that Great-Uncle Algie forgot him in Blackpool, worse than double-potions with Professor Snape, even. It's worse than anything.
When Fleur surfaces, he watches the Beauxbatons girls flutter around her, draping towels and whispering in French, clinging to her hands and dropping kisses across her cheeks. Hermione and Ron are gone again, and he realises he's the one left behind to wait for Harry.
And so his mind wanders, and in his daydream he watches Harry pulling himself to the dock and he's waiting for Harry, of course, with a towel and a reassuring smile. And daydream-Harry takes the towel and wraps up in it, still shivering, not saying a word. Daydream-Neville holds out Harry's jacket for him, and then all of a sudden daydream-Harry is in his arms and clinging, shiver-shaking. So daydream-Neville holds him and doesn't mind that the other boy smells salty like lakewater and is clinging bruisingly-tight. You did it, Neville would say, You did it, Harry, it's all-right now, and he'd rest his chin on top of Harry's wet hair, pulling him in close, and everything would be all-right because no matter what would lie ahead in the third task it couldn't possibly be worse than this.
It is a pleasant daydream and he is completely wrapped up in it, doesn't notice when Cho and Cedric return, is snapped out of it only by the sound of Hermione shrilly exclaiming that Harry and Ron haven't come back yet.
The hour is almost up. Neville's forgotten how to breathe and he's suddenly sure that if Harry dies he's most certainly going to die right alone with him. And then, then, then, Harry appears.
It's nothing like he imagined, of course. Everyone circles around Harry; Hermione possessively drapes him in her towel and Neville is forgotten in the background clinging to Harry's jacket, helpless or something like it.
He starts at the hand on his shoulder, expects it to belong to Professor Moody and is surprised instead to look up at the Durmstrang Headmaster. Karkaroff's fingers curl inexplicably into Neville's hair, are bruising-heavy on his shoulder as the points are awarded. When the Durmstranger leaves to whisper heavy foreign syllables to Viktor Krum, Neville is left curiously alone, with Harry's forgotten jacket still in his hands.
iv.
He won't understand until much later the part he's played in all of this, of course. Someday it will make perfect sense why the Wednesday afternoons with his favourite professor have stopped.