It was a sad, strange year at Hogwarts. Voldemort had begun to move in the wizarding world, and news of new atrocities and ocunterstrikes filtered into the castle by way of the Daily Prophet, as the teachers and older students grew grimmer by the day. The reformed Dumbledore's Army practiced almost daily, often late into the night after curfew. The castle was sealed off, visits to and from Hogwarts cut off completely. But through it all, as the seasons rolled steadily on, every evening - or close enough - after supper, Draco and Neville met in the ruins above the castle. Sometimes they talked but mostly they sat or worked or read. But when they did talk, both were pleasantly surprised at what they found. Draco found Neville to have a dry, quiet sense of humour and could at least keep up in a discussion of politics, with a broad appreciation for Draco's almost continual sarcasm and witty repartee. Neville had a way, as well, of getting to the heart of the matter with the fewest words possible, and an impeccable sens of delicacy, knowing precisely when and what to drop.
Neville, on the other hand, found a decided lack of any such delicacy in Draco. The Slytherin had a brutal honesty and almost no tact, but with an innocence about it that attracted rather than repelled. His tongue was as quick as ever, but as he ruthlessly lampooned professors and political figures, Neville heard no malcice behind it. Neville was surprised to find an exceedingly quick mind behind the indolent aristocratic facade, one that could almost rival Hermione's, with a bit of application. At the same time, he was far too lazy to work at his studies, scoring him just below Neville. Every ation and word had a kind of ruthless logic behind it, and Neville was fairly sure this logic could morph fairly quickly into a complete lack of scruples. Draco was also introspective and had a philosophical bent, often being able to follow a comncept through complex twists and turns to a resolution.
The blond boy grew pensive as the leaves began to drop, his eyes hollow and haunted, and he refused to tell Neville the reason for it. But he could guess. It probably had something to do with the almost daily owls from Lucius. Neville was fairly sure they contained a slightly different story than the Prophet. He grew waspish as the snows began to fly, but Neville patiently endured his outburts, usually managing to jolly the aristocrat into some semblance of good humour. Neville noticed a similar waspishness in Harry. The triumvirate of Harry, Ron, and Hermione were drawing inwards more, and there were fewer and fewer raucous games of snap or chess. And Neville had been awakened not a few times by Harry's midnight nightmares.
The first Hogwarts-related casualty came in the second week of December, when snowdrifts had piled up against the pillars and walls of the courtyard. Chatter in the Great Hall fell to almost a minimum during breakfast as Dumbledore emerged from an antehamber, his face grave, and swept down the hall. He stopped about a quarter of the way down the Ravenclaw table leant over, murmuring to a black-hari fifth-year, who face turned immediately pale as she stared up into the headmaster's wrinkled old eyes. Gently, the old man led her from the Hall. A buzz of conversation rose in their wake.
"It's started," Draco said in a hollow voice. A twisted grimace that could almost be called a grin crossed his face. "Y'know, every other person I've seen today treats me like I personally ordered the attack on that girl's father."
"Kim Coltrane," Neville said, leaning back on his elbows. "Her name's Kim Coltrane. Both her parents are wizards, but her mother was Muggle-born. She has two brothers. One's a Squib, he's at a Muggle university, and the other works for Flourish & Blotts in Diagon Alley."
Draco gave him a sideways look. "That's . . . strangely comforting to know. It would be so much harder to kill people if you know things like that. How do you know it, may I ask?"
Neville shrugged. "I know most everyone fourth year and up, even if they don't know me. I hear a lot."
Draco sighed and rested his head back against the stone. "Everyone clams right up when they see my coming. Oh yes, the Junior Dark Lord himself," he sneered.
Neville huffed. "If you feel so strongly about it, do something. You can't be your father's malleable pawn forever. Show some damn spine."
"Bloody wonderful advice coming from you, Longbottom," Dracp snorting, reverting to surnames for the first time in weeks. Neville let it slide. "I just . . . can't. You expect Potter to throw in the towel and say, 'I'm through with all this nonsense'? He couldn't even if he wanted to. And it's the same with me."
Neville sighed. "You know, Draco, sometimes you're such a bloody drama queen." And he tramped off down the slope, leaving the Slytherin gaping behind him.
Time marched on, Christmas passed, a subdued affairs despite having the entire student body stay at the castle for the holidays. There were three more students who lost family in the week that followed, all Muggle-born. It didn't snow that year, just got bitingly cold, as if the weather itself had fallen before Voldemort. The world seemed to be holding its breath. The murders trickled off. Everyone knew it was the calm before the storm, just nobody knew when the storm would break. Or how long it would last, and what would be left when it was over.
It was a cold, clear morning one day late in January. The roof of the Great Hall showed a cloudless sky, the white circle of teh winter sun glaring down at them. Neville barely glanced up as the rustle of wings announced the morning mail. He heard Hermione scoff a few seats away, "Looks like Malfoy's getting his marching orders."
Neville glanced over at the Slytherin table, trying to make it look casual. Draco was staring at the parchment clutched in his hand. His complexion was naturally pale, so Neville was fairly sure that no one had noticed that it had now gone paler. He felt a sudden chill and apprehension as to what was in that letter. Then pansy leaned over and Draco's stony face broke into a practiced leer as he folded the parchment and slipped it inside his robe, tapping the side of his nose in a gesture of knowing superiority. Neville looked away. It was still disconcerting when he saw Draco with this mask on. If a mask it was. He had never been able to shake the feeling that this was all just some elaborate game for Malfoy's amusement. And as always, Neville allowed him the beneift of the doubt and pushed the thought away.
It was late when Neville hurried towards the ruins. With dusk coming earlier, they had less and less time each night to talk, but now the days were slowly growing longer again. He wouldn't have even come, but he had to ask about the letter that morning. But when he got there, he paused, confused. Draco wasn't on the windowsill, his customary perch. Instead, he was standing before it, his fingers gripping the rough stone of the sill, his shoulders hunched as it standing was an effort. Neville took a cautious step forward.
"Draco? Draco, what's wrong?"
There was no sound by Draco's heavy breathing. Neville took another step forward, his foot crunching on the forest litter. Their breath hung in the air like cobwebs. Neville was about to speak again, when Draco whirled abruptly, a desperate fire in his eyes and his hair flaring wild about his face. As he turned, he drew his wand. Neville didn't move as Draco brought it to bear, screaming, "Crucio!"
Neville fell to the ground, screaming as he was engulfed in total pain, every nerve ending with its own personal pain technician. It lasted less than a minutes, and when it stopped abruptly, left him panting. Weakly, he raised his head. "Why, Draco?"
"Hate me, dammit!" Draco roared, then pointed his wand again. "Crucio!"
The Gryffindor scream again as the pain came again. He was on fire, her was freezing, he was being stung by thousands of hornets, he was being ripped apart by claws. And then it stopped. "Draco . . ." he gasped, trying to force words out from an abused throat. "I don't . . . hate you . . . I won't . . ."
"You have to!" Draco growled. "Everyone else does. Hate me, Neville! Crucio!" Again and again he cast Cruciatus, Neville's screams absorbed by the silent forest around them. He cast it until his hand was shaking and his voice was coming in sobs. His wand clattered to the ground and he dropped to his knees beside Neville's prone form.
Neville's mind was a foggy haze. He was aware that the pain had stopped, as every muscle and fiber throbbed with phantom sense-memory. He was aware of the arms that encircled him, pulling him off the cold ground, holding him against a warm chest. Draco's face was buried in his hair, and Neville could hear the repeated half-sobs, like a mantra. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . ."
Although his arm seemed filled with lead and every muscle screamed in agony, Neville raised his hand and placed it over Draco's on his stomach and squeezed slightly. Draco's voice trailed off, but Neville could feel his shoulders still shaking. The blond boy didn't seem inclined to move, and Neville wasn't sure he could even if her had wanted to, so they stayed like that for a long while, as Neville regained his breath and the pain receeded. It was comfortable, leaning back against Draco, the slight warmth of his hands against Neville's cold ones. The sun had long set now and night brought a deepening chill. Although Neville knew that prolonged exposure was just a bad idea, it could possibly prove fatal, but somehow he had no real inclination to move.
Draco shifted, just a little movement, but the brush of pale blond hair against his cheek brought him suddenly into full awareness of exactly how they must have looked to an outside observer. He twisted, his neck throbbing in dull protest, acutely aware of Draco's chest pressed against his back, their arms resting alongside each other, and now, Neville's head turned, their faces were scant centimetres away from each other. Time seemed to stop. They remained frozen like that, breath hanging before them, grey boring into brown.
And of course, that was the moment that Dumbledore chose to step into the ruins. His old eyes darkted about, taking in everything, missing nothing. His face like a thundercloud, he strode over to them and seperated them, despite his decrepit exterior lifting them both easily by the backs of their robes.
"Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Longbottom," he said calmly, reprovingly. "I have no idea what's going on here, but it is to stop. Curfew is long passed and you, Mr. Malfoy, should know that this is a danegrous time for any students to wnader the grounds freely. 20 points from each of your Houses."
Draco twisted out of Dumbledore's graps and grabbed his wand. "20 points? Wait until my father hears about this flagrant display . . ."
Draco continued to kvetch as Dumbledore marched them back to the castle. Neville's legs were shaky and it still hurt to move, but through ruthless application of will he kept himself upright and mobile. They had obviously been gone longer than both had guessed, as most of the teachers were standing in the front hall, talking in small groups. Harry, Ron, Ginny, Hermione, Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, and Thomas were huddled in a group by the stairs. Pansy, Crabbe, and an assortment of Slytherins were in a similar huddle by the entrance to the passageway to the dungeons. At Dumbledore's entrance with the boys in tow, everyone looked up, and the wave of relief that rolled through the room was almost crushing.
In fact, it did prove crushing. As Ron and Hermione hurried forward, the others close behind, Neville's will drained away. His knees buckled and he slowly toppled to the cool stone floor. A thick veil of grey was over his eyes, but he was lucid enough to see Draco struggling against the grasp of Snape and Harry shouting, "Going to kick him when he's down, Malfoy?"
"Fat lot you know, Potter," he snapped back.
Dumbledore's eyes flashed. "Mr. Malfoy, in my office. Now. Hagrid, please bring Neville to the infirmary."
The last thing Neville knew was being lifted off the ground and a deep, rumbling voice saying, "All right, there, Neville." Then he fainted.
To part V! III, milord! III!