Chapter 36: Knots
19 May, 2018
Diagon Alley
Looking to the Future
While it was expected that Prince Draco, a close childhood friend of both the Duke and Duchess of Grimmauld, would be among the chosen godfathers for Willow James, there was quite a stir when it was announced that Hermione Granger had also been selected by the couple as godmother. Baby Willow's christening was quite a star-studded affair, including a number of high profile members of related noble families. Indeed, even Princess Narcissa made a rare appearance; surely none could forget that notably, Hermione wore the now-infamous emerald earrings that had once been the world's first clue of her romance with Draco.
Given her appointment as godparent, it had become quite obvious that Hermione had successfully positioned herself to hold the role of Prince Draco's consort, and indeed, the amendment to the Marriage Law was passed shortly thereafter, making Hermione eligible for consideration. Many anticipated a proposal to take place immediately following the new Succession Act and were quite surprised when it did not, prompting much speculation about whether Prince Draco's intentions were truly as devoted as they appeared.
I suppose it comes as no surprise that I was not invited to the christening of Harry and Pansy's daughter, just as I am not (not conventionally, anyway) invited to the wedding of Draco and Hermione. Really, I imagine the greater surprise would be that I ever wanted to attend the baptism—though I did, sort of. Not as it was, of course, but as it might have been.
I am highly conscious of my footing in the multiverse. Truth be told, for a single, brief minute, I believed I was to possess that life, at least in pieces. Not with its grandeur, obviously, seeing as I am not a prince or a duke or even a friend to one any longer, but at one point I really thought I would soon have a family of my own; a child and a wife, and possibly even happiness. It's not lost on me that I wouldn't have been deserving of that particular outcome (that, along with the obvious fact that its mere existence was due to my own error to begin with), but I sometimes imagine there is a world somewhere where this little girl, Jamie, is my daughter.
True, she looks nothing like me and is not mine in any biological way, but I know I would have loved her, cared for her, as if she were. In some other world, one where Pansy still needs me and I continue to pretend her threats are a burden instead of a relief, I have a little girl who loves me. It's hard not to cling to that, in some way. In many ways, actually, because I have not been happy since I thought Jamie would be mine.
And it certainly doesn't help that, in whatever universe that is, Blaise Zabini is still in my life.
22 November, 2015
Longbottom House
Neville had tea with his grandmother every Sunday afternoon, a tradition as religious as their weekly morning service. He had only been fool enough to miss it once, on an occasion he would come to soundly resent, as it had been among the chief errors of his life. Now, the idea he might decline to attend was so unimaginable as to be damaging to his psyche. Athletes had superstitions, game-winning socks and day-of routines, and now, so did Neville. It would be tea with Augusta Longbottom every Sunday afternoon for the rest of his life, or else surely something life-altering and unstomachable would be bound to happen.
Not that they had much to talk about these days that didn't manage to turn Neville's stomach regardless.
"That little succubus is utterly shameless," Augusta said, pursing her lips at the news of Willow James' christening. Presumably she meant Pansy, not the infant the world was delighted to hear was fondly called Jamie; though, there was really no telling where Augusta directed her enmity, and Neville lacked the energy to ask. "It's as if she no longer remembers she was engaged to you," Augusta scoffed (so, Pansy, then), "much to my own dismay, less than one year ago."
Augusta liked to pretend, in retrospect, that she had always disapproved of Pansy. True, in fairness to her, she had never liked Pansy, finding some opposition to her inauthenticity (an understandable 'flaw,' Neville had always thought, seeing as Pansy's authentic self wasn't fit for elderly nobility), but her dismay over the marriage was another lie altogether. Augusta preferred to imagine she had not pressured Neville into the engagement with little, delicate drops of, "Who knows how much longer I have to live, Neville dear?" and "Would you deny an old woman the joy of seeing her grandson properly married?" before eventually taking drastic measures, resolving to levy something of an inescapable ultimatum.
In other words, it was a whimsical thought, but a false one.
"The dress is lovely, though," Augusta grumbled, eyeing Pansy's tasteful ensemble of a champagne Daphne Nott coatdress with contrasting pumps. Beside her, Harry looked unusually refined, possibly even Draco-esque. Neville forced himself not to imagine the conversation they might have had about it, which he felt comfortably certain he could call to mind. Henry, put that hat away, this is our daughter's christening not showtime at the Apollo, which would be followed by a fond but irreverent, Yes, Your Majesty, and a wink that suggested Pansy's advice would be duly ignored until she physically had bullied him into it, which she would. Affectionately, as the two of them had always been.
It tightened in Neville's throat a bit to think maybe Pansy had always quietly loved Harry, or that Harry had always loved her in some dormant, sleeping way that had only awoken once Neville was out of the picture. Would Pansy and Harry have been together sooner if not for him? Would they have never been together at all? It was increasingly painful that no matter the answer, he was no longer involved in their lives in any way.
His own fault, he reminded himself. His fault.
"She'll get what's coming to her," Augusta said irritably, glancing at Neville with a sense of … not pride, exactly, but ownership. Possession, Neville thought uncomfortably. "Nobody makes a cuckold of my grandson and gets away with it."
Another old stirring of guilt nudged at his chest. "I told you, Gran," he said, clearing his throat. "There's no reason to resent Pansy for anything. We both made mistakes."
"Oh?" Augusta scoffed. "Well, you certainly did, trusting her as you did. I warned you, didn't I? Girls like her are selfish, Neville, dear, and accustomed to taking without return. Your mother was no different."
She took a sip of her tea as Neville observed his cup, opting not to think about Alice Longbottom or where she might have been now as a result of whatever Augusta's measures might have been when his father was sent to St Mungo's. For a long time he had wondered to himself about his mother, blaming her for leaving him behind even if his grandmother had been the one to pressure her out the door. Now, though, he felt he understood her. Perhaps Augusta was right that Alice was very like Pansy, which meant she would know better than to suffer beneath another woman's thumb.
Besides, at least Alice had never gone to Rita Skeeter. She had never once revealed a family secret. If Augusta had forced Alice to leave, well, at least she hadn't brought anyone else down with her. So, was Alice Longbottom really so bad? Once, Neville had been certain she was. Now, he wasn't so sure. Even if he never saw her again, he respected her for her silence, at very least. She was diligent enough in her disappearance to limit the scope of his pain.
"Anyway," Augusta said, cheerily turning back to Neville, "you're far better off now, dear. How are things with Susan?"
Neville's tea was cold when he sipped it, which was a bit of a relief. More than once the afternoon had felt impossibly long by the time a handful of minutes had passed. This time, he felt confident it would be over soon.
"They're going well," he said.
Susan was deeply unlike Pansy, as were her friends: Ginny, and, on occasion, Astoria. They were clever girls, interesting and certainly lively, but somehow, they were deeply… normal.
Had that somehow become a depressing factor to him? Strange. Neville supposed he had once felt it ridiculous the amount of damage Pansy's friends carried around with them, all a bit selfish and prone to error as they were, but the moment they were gone he desperately missed being among them. It was comforting, existing adjacent to whatever strange thing they were, even if he had never really been part of it. Their connection to each other was unbreakable, irreplaceable; for Susan, her friendships would almost certainly come and go, while for Neville, his relationships would surely never compare.
On the topic of Lady Susan Bones, Augusta's eyes were bright; suspiciously so. "Well," she said with undertones of eagerness, "when the time comes—"
"It's not like that," Neville said, and Augusta's brow furrowed at the interruption. "Sorry, Gran," he hurried to say, "I just meant I'd like to take it slow with Susan." She gave a slow, tentative nod that suggested he explain himself further or risk a lecture, if not an outright indication of displeasure. "I don't need another disaster engagement on my hands," he reminded her. "And personally, I'd prefer if this Lockhart nonsense died down."
Predictably, Augusta's features darkened at the mention of Lockhart's name. "That old buffoon." She took another sip of her tea, shaking her head. "It was a good thing you did, telling me about him. I'd hate to see another book of his becoming an unwarranted bestseller."
Neville winced; speaking of guilt. "You do realize he's blaming his ghostwriter for falsifying his material," he pointed out to Augusta. It was an easy excuse that only a weasel like Lockhart would use, claiming a professional writer had lied for her own benefit and then insisting he couldn't specify how because they'd signed a non-disclosure agreement about the specifics of the content. "The way we went about it, Gran, he might get away with what he's done."
"Certainly not," Augusta scoffed. "He can blame whoever he likes, but public opinion is hardly a court of law. Who better to destroy, some nameless girl nobody can even manage to find, or the overstuffed author who's made a living on bribery and extortion?" At Neville's silence, Augusta remarked, "Besides, Rita says countless have come forward to air their grievances with him since the article was released." She pursed her lips, an expression uncomfortably similar to what Pansy would have done if someone were wearing too many shades of neutrals. "The important thing," Augusta concluded, "is that neither Gilderoy Lockhart's memoir nor his lies about my son will ever see the light of day."
Let it never be said Augusta Longbottom was losing her touch, or her taste for blood.
Still—"We could have done something quietly," Neville said, probably unwisely. He dropped his voice, murmuring, "We could have alerted his publisher, you know, and asked to remain anonymous. We didn't have to destroy his career, or anyone else's."
"Neville, do not mumble," Augusta said. "It's impolite."
She sipped her tea, glancing down at her Ballon Blanc.
"Well, I suppose I should be off," she said, adjusting the band of her watch and rising to her feet. "I have an engagement with the National Portrait Gallery this evening. Will you be seeing Susan?"
Did it matter what was true? He doubted it. "Most likely."
"Wonderful," Augusta said warmly, bending to sniff his cheek in something that was not strictly a kiss, but intended to express the same degree of affection. "See you soon, darling," she said, and hurried off briskly, still surprisingly agile for someone of her age.
When she was gone, Neville set his cold tea on the antique saucer and dug out his phone, hitting play on an old voicemail.
"We need to talk about what happened. No, we shouldn't talk, and do you know why? I do not require any conversation, and certainly not from you. Thank you for your consideration and might I say, goodbye forever."
Neville lowered the phone, feeling the usual numbness that settled into his lungs on the occasions, like this one, when he decided to destroy himself with melancholy. Then he raised it to his ear again, hitting play on another.
"That's never happening again, just so you know. I want to be very clear about this. Am I understood? Never again. As far as I'm concerned, last night never happened."
Another.
"You're a menace, you know that? It's no wonder I won't permit you any points, you'd only misuse them. I can't see you tonight because, as I'm sure I have mentioned, this is a terrible idea and I hate it. Listen closely: We. Are. Done."
"Jesus fuck, I can't get the taste of you out of my mouth. Anise and black coffee, it's all so terribly shitty and so quintessentially you. How are you not thoroughly revolting? You should repulse me; you're a cretin, and I loathe you. Do not call me, I have no interest in your remarks."
Neville shut his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair.
"Stay the night. No, don't. No, surprise me. No, I despise surprises, I loathe you. Erase this immediately or I shall have to deduct points. No, retracted, I will deduct nothing, none of this matters to me. Carry on as you were. Delete this."
"My sheets smell like you and I can't sleep. I know I'm going to have to do laundry in the morning but I suspect it will be easier to simply buy another bed, with all new bedding. A new duvet that doesn't have you all over it. Don't come here again, do you understand me? Purchases of this magnitude are unsustainable. It's time you manage some financial sense and stay out of places you don't belong." A pause. "I hate you." Another pause, longer. "I miss you."
They would only become worse from there.
"You could choose me, you know. I understand it's a choice I don't offer you often, but you're not here right now, so let's pretend I mean it. Temporarily, it's on the table. You could choose me. I'm just saying, scientifically the option exists. She would hate us for a while, I know, but you don't know her like I do. If we tell her, she might forgive us, and then we won't have to sleep alone anymore. Yes, your grandmother would disown you, but I have money. I have plenty of money. And Draco, Harry, Theo, they'd eventually forgive me. I can see it's you who has more to lose, but you're the one stupidly insisting you love me. I don't believe it's real or that you mean it but still, you say it is, and sometimes I want to trust you. Ridiculous, isn't it? How you've turned me into a liar—no, fine, I was always a liar, but now my lies are far, far worse—and still, I want to trust you. I fantasize about a world where I am honest, at least with you. That's it, that's my entire fantasy: just me living a life that's true, and in it, you could choose me. We could tell the truth. If you call in the next five seconds I'll take it as a sign—how about that? 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… Well. That was fun while it lasted."
"I've been thinking about your father. About fathers in general, and how we either fall into the patterns of imperfect men or we are never permitted to learn the ways in which they are imperfect. I was thinking about the story you told me last night and do you know, I feel terribly sorry for you? Living up to a hero must be impossibly painful. It must hurt you, though it isn't why I called. I called because when I think of you in pain, I feel something I am sorry to say is equally painful. It occurs to me that perhaps I feel something for you, but all it does is hurt me. I think we should end this. I think it highly likely we are causing irreparable harm."
And yet.
"Stop calling me. Don't you understand? She won't speak to me. None of them will, all because of you, and because I'm… because of this. What possible reason would there be for us to see each other anymore? You have to stay away, you owe her that. I owe her that, even if you don't—so what will keep you out? I don't miss you. Is that what you want to hear? That I never loved you? Fine, I never loved you and I never will. There, do you feel better now?" A pause, and a sharp exhalation. "You still have her and you have the audacity to cry to me? Don't you dare call me again, you cocksucking bastard. Find someone else you can beg."
"I know I said I would never call again. I said a lot of things, so you must find it difficult to know what to believe. I thought I would call and tell you the truth, but it turns out I have no more truths to tell. I already told them to you. Clearly not well enough, but you wouldn't have spent the last year in my bed if you hadn't understood something I never managed to say, and now I would say it, but we both know it would make no difference." Pause for muted, maniacal laughter. "I have nightmares where I kiss your face. I hope you taste me when you sleep. Goodbye."
Neville swallowed, the knot tightening in his throat.
"Hi, I know it's been a while. I need you to call me, it's about your father. I wouldn't have rung you if it weren't important, believe me. Ignore your better instincts and do what I ask, for once in your life. Call me back."
"It was good to hear your voice. You didn't ask, but missing you comes in waves." A pause. "I will solve this for you, somehow. I know what that story means to you. Call it a favor, if you want, but I suspect it's more of a symptom. Something self-destructive, as usual. Something I owe to myself."
"It occurs to me I shouldn't have said those things—I don't think you're a coward. No, actually, you are a coward, most certainly, but so am I. We are both cowards capable of doing brave things but you, I think, have it in you to be more. I never think of myself as good… and you know how I love to think of myself. But you, I think, possess genuine goodness. I think your cowardice is a matter of not wanting to cause pain, even though you always do. Is it yourself you're hurting now? I hope not. I hope not."
Neville glanced down at the newspaper, listing the godparents of Willow James Potter. His Royal Highness, Prince Draco of Wales, to no surprise. Hermione Granger, to everyone but Neville's surprise. Ronald Weasley, probably because the Earl and Countess of Arundel, Theo and Daphne, would inevitably be godparents to Draco's children. Fleur Delacour, a public favorite. Then a distant cousin of Pansy's that Neville had never heard of, but might have in another life.
Finally, there it was: Blaise Zabini. Close friend to both parents. School chum, the article said.
Neville slid his finger over the final name, bracing himself for what came next on the phone.
"This is my last message," Blaise's voice said, sounding hollow. It was dated a week ago. "I know you said not to call, so I won't, not anymore, but you really fucked Hermione and I thought you should hear it from me that I want nothing further to do with you. Congratulations," he said in his sly drawl, "You've managed to hurt every person in my life who matters, and I despise that I have so easily let you do it. I'm done with you, forever, starting now. Goodbye."
Then, with no voicemails left, silence.
Neville lowered the phone, eyeing the tea he should really have had someone clean up by now, only he wasn't particularly apt to speak. He rose to his feet, opting to clear the platter himself, when his phone suddenly rang in his hand.
"Hello?" he asked, half-expecting to hear Blaise on the other end.
"Oh good, I've caught you," said Susan's politely dulcet voice. "Do you think there's a chance I could lure you out for a late supper? If you've no other plans, of course."
It had been some time since Neville had last had plans. "Anything special?"
"No, no, just a little gathering. You remember Ginny's brother Charles? He's bringing his girlfriend, and I believe Michael said he would try to make it, too. Interested?"
Equally yes and no. Neville weighed his inclinations.
"Sure," he said amiably. "If you want me to come, I'll come."
"Great," Susan said, sounding pleased. "I'll send you the details as soon as I confirm."
Pansy never sent details. She took ownership of them. Blaise, on the other hand, mostly came and went as he pleased. Neville often wondered if he hadn't actually needed to have them both, one for stability and the other for balance. His second-to-last time with Blaise, angry make-up sex Neville had never intended to be the goodbye it almost was, had been a Sunday morning that turned to a near-comatose afternoon, causing him to accidentally skip tea with his grandmother. That, in turn, had prompted her to discover the bespoke shirt hanging in his wardrobe when she had looked for him at home.
All of Blaise Zabini's clothing was custom, of course; marked with his unmistakable monogram. "Propose to the Parkinson girl," Augusta had said without expression, her eyes fixed on the embroidered label, "now."
What Gran wanted, Gran usually got, one way or another. Forever and ever, amen, but it wouldn't have happened if Pansy had been there. Pansy was always very good at details, and she had never once let Neville oversleep.
"Great," he said eventually to Susan, forcing a smile, as he so often did. "Then I will see you tonight."
Charles—the only one of Ron's brothers Neville had somehow managed not to meet—was, as it turned out, not much like the other Weasleys. Entirely unlike his youngest brother in particular, Charlie Weasley was a boisterous, stocky redhead with a thick beard who wore his burnt auburn hair pulled into a loop at the apex of his half-buzzed skull. His girlfriend Nymphadora, whom Susan and Ginny called Tonks and Charlie called Dora ("Do-ooooo-ra," as he typically pronounced it, sweet-talking into her neck while she shoved him playfully away), wore her hair in a pixie cut with shocking pink tips. She also dressed a bit like Gwen Stefani.
Neither one was exactly the picture of nobility, not that those things mattered much to Neville. Mostly, it just meant that this outing, like many of Neville's outings, was not something Augusta would want to hear about.
"Have another drink," Tonks advised him, in something of a militaristic suggestion. "You look morose," she added, and Neville frowned. It was a noisy restaurant, and uncomfortably crowded.
"What?" he asked, leaning towards her.
"You look morose," Tonks repeated, winking at him and shoving the glass in his hand. "Drink until my boyfriend's hot," she instructed, and Neville blinked, unable to prevent a reflexive glance at Charlie in response. He had an arm slung around Ginny's chair, animatedly talking to his sister and Susan about something. Planes? Something like that. "You know, you're not bad yourself," Tonks remarked, as Neville raised the beer to his lips, taking a long sip to ease his palpable discomfort. "You're with Susie over there?"
"Susan," Neville said, glancing at her. She was the type to go quiet and wide-eyed when exciting things were happening, which they currently were. An attractive, heavily-muscled man was sitting next to her and talking about his work as a pilot, so yeah, she was rapt. It was kind of adorable, in a way.
"She's cute," Tonks said. Neville's attention, meanwhile, cut to the empty chair on his left, which had been reserved for Michael. "Bet she's a riot in the sack," Tonks added approvingly under her breath, toasting Susan from afar. "The quiet ones always are."
Neville choked on his beer, and Tonks slid him a grin.
"We're taking shots," she informed him, flagging down a waitress with all the subtle confidence Neville wished he possessed in public, but certainly never would. Blaise wasn't subtle, but he was the good kind of loud. The kind everyone wanted to be closer to. A flame, really, more than a flash. "You need a shot," Tonks repeated, and though Neville might have preferred to go home and abuse what remained of his sanity with old voicemails, he acquiesced.
"So," he said, attempting conversation, "how do you know Charlie?"
"Gave him my first blow job in the back of our English seminar," Tonks replied, catching Charlie's adoring look and returning it with a wink. "I'd had sex before, obviously," she continued, apparently blissfully unconcerned with Neville's reticence, "but—" She leaned closer, remarking, "Oral sex was never something I had any interest in doing until I saw what Charlie Weasley was packing."
Please, Neville implored his brain.
Please do not think about Charlie Weasley's cock.
"You know, I don't often say this about pricks, but it's really very pretty," Tonks said with a laugh. Either she was already drunk, which was certainly the direction the night was heading, or she simply delighted in scandalizing him. "You know how some cocks just… glow?"
Yes. He knew precisely what she meant, not that he felt able to admit it. Worse, he couldn't tell from this distance, but he wouldn't have been surprised if Charlie Weasley's cock was made of solid gold.
"Sounds like a religious experience," he commented, hoping to ease the tension with a bit of lighthearted humor just as the shots arrived in front of them.
"It was," Tonks agreed, clearly relishing the memory as she slid three over to Neville. "Here, take these," she told him. "You'll feel better."
He wanted to say no. Sort of. Then again, he wanted to feel as little as possible, and besides, he kind of liked the way Tonks was touching his arm. Sure, it wouldn't go anywhere between them, certainly not with Susan and Charlie sitting right there, but it was better than staring at Michael's empty chair. Or lying in his empty bed. Or listening to his voicemails again, alone.
Neville downed one shot as Tonks cheered, taking another. She placed the glass between her lips, balancing it, and tossed her head back. Neville, amused, applauded her agility, and she smiled broadly.
"So," she beckoned, setting the glass against the table with a smack. "Tell me about Susie's cunt."
"Jesus," Neville said with a shake of his head, "she's right there." Not that she was listening. Or that she could hear him. Trendy restaurants were too loud, which made him miss eating takeaway on the floor of Blaise's too-big apartment.
"Ah," Tonks sighed, lamenting something he couldn't begin to comprehend. "That bad, huh?"
"Actually, I wouldn't know," Neville said without thinking, which was a horrifying admission he wished he could take back the moment Tonks' eyes widened. "We're taking it slow," he told her. "We've only been seeing each other a few months."
"Good god, glaciers are melting faster," Tonks observed, shuddering. "The bees are dying, haven't you heard?" she added nonsensically, sliding another shot across the table to him. Her lips were glossy and moist with gin, and for the briefest, most inconsequential moment, he wanted to lick them matte again.
But, since that was a mostly unhelpful impulse, he took the second shot, and then the third one.
"There he is," Tonks said approvingly, as if she had once known Neville from his wilder days (which did not exist) and was now revisiting him for the evening. "That's a good boy," she added, and reached up, smoothing his hair back from his forehead in a slow, languid motion.
At exactly the same moment, Charlie glanced over. His smile quirked beneath his beard, and then he turned back to Susan and Ginny, continuing whatever oration he'd been in the middle of while Tonks continued toying with Neville's hair.
It felt nice. Soothing.
"So," she said. "Why the long face?"
He nearly closed his eyes, tranquil.
"Genetics," he said, and then, on second thought, "Though, it's not long. It's quite round."
Tonks unexpectedly burst into laughter, drawing the attention of the other three. "You're funny," she told Neville, and as she said it she sparkled, a bit. She sparkled in nearly the same way Blaise sparkled, undaunted by what people thought of her. He liked that about her; liked her, Neville thought. True, she wasn't as attractive as Charlie, but Charlie had a golden dick. People with golden dicks didn't want Neville. Michael's chair was still empty and Blaise's voice was in his voicemail; I'm done with you, forever, starting now.
Christ, remember Pansy?
The alcohol in Neville's system took a steep turn for the melancholy, washing over him in a disconcerting wave. He jolted upright, yanking himself from the tiny coma of Tonks' touch.
"Would you excuse me?" he said to Tonks, rising to his feet. "Just a moment."
"Sure," Tonks said, waving him off, and he made his way to the bathroom, stumbling a little as someone pushed out a chair that nearly smacked into his torso.
He slid into the small bathroom and tripped his way to the sink, bending over it. The trendy lighting glinted from the track bulbs onto his hair, prompting him to look up and see, regrettably, himself. What a mess. The same mess it always was, only slightly blurrier than usual.
Neville dug his phone out of the lining pocket of his jacket, but nothing. Not from Michael, and certainly not from Blaise. He slid it back in place, eyeing his hair. He could see the places Tonks' fingers had woven through it.
Maybe he should try to go home with Susan. She hadn't seemed particularly interested in sex with him up to this point—neither was he with her, obviously—but it could be… fairly nice, he imagined. She was pretty. Nice. The sort of girl Augusta Longbottom prayed for at night, or had possibly even manifested into being with her thoughts. Besides, Neville was decent in bed. He had a sizable dick and he was athletic enough, post-secondary school. He'd lost the baby fat long ago and even Pansy, who never gave credit where it wasn't due aside from briefly promising to spend her life with him, had assured him the sex was more than good.
The door opened behind him and he blinked, realizing he'd forgotten to lock the door. He looked down apologetically, trying to pretend he'd been doing something that wasn't strange and considering possible excuses as two hands slid over his eyes.
"Hey," murmured Tonks' voice, and Neville frowned.
"I think the ladies' room is—"
"Oh, shut up," she said, and spun him by the loops of his trousers, dragging his mouth down to hers. She tasted like candy, like melon-flavored liquor he didn't remember seeing her drink, and she still wasn't Blaise and she wasn't Michael either and she certainly wasn't Charlie but god, she tasted good. Her mouth was warm, spiced with sweetness, and her body was flush against his, heat radiating from every angle.
He pulled her closer, hands greedily on her waist until—no. No, wait, no. This had ruined his life once, hadn't it? His brain shouted for a reprieve.
"Tonks," Neville rasped, pulling away as her hands dipped under the waistband of his trousers. "Listen, I'm sorry, but we probably shouldn't—"
The door opened again and Neville staggered backwards so rapidly he hit his back on the faucet, swearing under his breath as he registered the familiar shade of red hair. "Charlie, listen," he said, holding a still-aggressive Tonks at arm's length in panic, "we were just—"
He stopped, swallowing, as Charlie turned the lock, stepping towards them. This is it, Neville thought, beginning to sweat. This was the reckoning, the tennis game with Pansy, only with a man twice his breadth. This was the moment he'd finally crossed the line; he braced himself, leaning back and wondering if he shouldn't just take the inevitable blow. No defense and no excuses. Maybe if he did, he'd finally fucking learn.
But then, to Neville's alarm, Charlie dropped down, eyeing what Neville realized was probably the beginnings of an erection.
"Dooooora," Charlie said, glancing up at her as Neville struggled to comprehend what was happening; hoping, at the very least, that Charlie had no plans to punch him in the dick. "He's barely even hard."
"What am I, your fluffer?" Tonks said, rolling her eyes. "I've only been here about a minute," she added, taking Neville's chin in her hand and giving him a dastardly look of promise as he stiffened, momentarily paralyzed. "But we've got some time, don't we?"
"Well," Charlie said, unbuckling Neville's belt. "Then it's only fair I get a minute too, isn't it?" he asked, sliding the zipper down as Tonks laughed, pressing her lips to Neville's neck.
"Hang on," Neville said, groggily beginning to piece together what was happening. "Just… just hang on a sec-"
But Charlie's mouth had slipped over the head of his cock, prompting him to a loud, unmistakable groan.
"Holy—hold on, I—"
Tonks kissed him soundly, alternating the pressure of her lips; firm and then soft, then firm again. She had her hand on the back of Charlie's neck, directing him, and Neville, slowly losing the urge to panic in favor of a heightened buzz of arousal, let his head fall back, widening his stance to permit Charlie to take him deeper until he remembered with a start where they were.
"Susan," he registered, eyes snapping open as Charlie released his dick with a pop of confusion.
"Tonks," corrected Tonks, "though, if you want to roleplay, I could get into that."
"No, no, I mean… she's outside, I can't just—" Not even with Blaise had he crossed that particular boundary, though at this point, it was amazing he had any lines of morality left. "I can't, I'm sorry, I just—"
He fumbled to zip his trousers, leaving Tonks and Charlie to exchange a glance.
"Well," Charlie said, dragging a thumb across the corner of his mouth as he rose to his feet. He slipped Neville's phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, advising, "Here's our flat, if you change your mind." He typed in the address, pausing to give Neville a pointed look. "And, for the record, I do recommend you change your mind."
Neville fought a shudder. He wasn't going to. He was sure of that. Sure, it wasn't as if the idea wasn't wholly tempting. For one thing, Charlie's mouth on his dick was clearly no amateur move; he and Tonks obviously did this regularly, and often. And it wasn't as if Neville knew either of them, and true, he and Susan were hardly exclusive. It wasn't the same as it had been with Blaise and Pansy—and besides, it wasn't like he had any other options if he wanted to spend the night with someone else—but still.
But still.
But—
I'm done with you, forever, starting now. Goodbye.
But.
Charlie slid the phone back into Neville's pocket as Tonks planted another kiss on Neville's lips. She slipped under Charlie's arm as they headed to the door, and then, inadvisably, Neville thought: Fuck it.
"Wait," Neville called after them, and they paused in unison, both glancing expectantly over their shoulders at him. "Top or bottom?" he asked, directing the question at Charlie.
Beneath the beard, he could see Charlie's mouth had quirked.
"I'm whatever Dora wants me to be," he said, giving her shoulder a squeeze, and Neville shook his head.
"Not tonight. I'm fucking you tonight," he informed Charlie, who looked noticeably surprised, and then Neville glanced at Tonks, challenging her to argue. Immediately, though, the idea he'd just been incredibly rude washed over him, resulting in a hasty, backpedaling bluster of, "Not that I won't participate in foreplay. Obviously, I'm more than happy to—"
"Stop," Charlie said with palpable derision, holding up a hand to stop him. "You already won, Longbottom, quit while you're ahead." He glanced down at his girlfriend. "Unless you disagree?"
Tonks tutted her admonishment, eyeing Neville with obvious interest. "Nonsense, Charles, you know I always enjoy a little voyeurism," she said, brushing her lips across his cheek, and then she turned to Neville, arching a brow. "Twenty minutes?"
Neville nodded.
"See you," Charlie said, donning a pair of sunglasses from nowhere (his beard, perhaps?) and laughing heartily as he and Tonks slipped out the bathroom door.
The trick to wrongdoing, particularly at the frequency Neville committed it, was to put off his sense of self-loathing for as long as possible. It would happen, eventually; usually at some panic-stricken moment in the middle of the night, which would then prevent any meaningful period of sleep. But generally, it was all just a race against time where it came to the compulsions of his addictive self and then, subsequently, his requisite self-hatred.
That evening, it took about two hours, twenty minutes, and fourteen seconds to arrive at the inevitable state of repugnance. A record, as far as Neville could tell. He could sometimes put it off for multiple days after seeing Blaise, but he supposed it was a matter of quality, not quantity, when it came to sexual partners. Not that Charlie and Tonks weren't good at what they did. They were, particularly Charlie. It was more the issue of sitting up from unfamiliar sheets that smelled like someone else's cologne to discover the two strangers he'd just had sex with were perfectly fine without him.
"That was fun," Tonks was murmuring to Charlie, who in turn was toying with her fingers.
Ah, so they were fun, then. This was a fun couple, as Neville had suspected upon seeing the beard and the man-bun and the pink hair. No problems here, just fun.
Same, he thought bitterly. Same.
Neville rose to his feet from where he'd been sandwiched between them, making his way to the bathroom. The flat certainly wasn't squalor, but it wasn't nearly the nice he was used to. A little hint of Pansy snuck into his brain, commenting on the drapes. Heinous, she said in his mind, and he looked up to eye his reflection for the second time that evening.
The bruise on his neck—Tonks' work—would be hidden by the collar of his shirt. The scratches on his back would fade shortly. He could shower away the feel of Charlie's mouth. He could have easily married Pansy. Yes, she was terrifying, and true, she would never have loved him, but at least she was different. He had never technically had a threesome with two people he'd just met before (or slept with anyone he'd just met, or had any other threesomes) but still, he had the vague understanding that what had just happened was somehow more of the same. He would have easily married Pansy, raised her daughter with relief, happily caught her cold. Any little piece of it suddenly felt preferable.
He rested his hands on the sink, leaning against it as Charlie and Tonks continued talking to each other outside the door.
"—never seen you get that into it before. Very sexy, babe."
"Well, he's a rather lovely partner, don't you think? We could work out a few kinks, host him again sometime."
Kinks. Ironically, not the fun kind. The kind where, for a second, Neville had almost let another name slip, coming much too quickly. In the end, Charlie had finished off his girlfriend himself while Neville ambiguously touched things, half-pretending to enjoy them. If he had to do the maths—he didn't particularly want to, knowing where the calculations would ultimately land, but for analysis' sake—he would have categorized himself somewhere around 45% into women, 55% men. Tonks had quite literally straddled a fine line all evening.
"I love you," Charlie murmured to her, "more than all the stars, darling."
"You silly man," Tonks sighed. "You hardly give a damn about the stars."
"I'm being poetic!"
"Are you, though?"
"Does this mean you don't love me in return? Drat," Charlie sighed, his voice muffled in her hair. "I'll have to find a new place to live."
"Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart," Tonks said, and though her voice had begun with its bright, candid quality, she softened by several degrees of tenderness to say, "I've grown far too accustomed to loving you by now to let you go."
Neville splashed some water on his face, compelling himself to be normal. To look normal, at very least. That was a thing that mattered to both Pansy and Augusta, and in some sense to Blaise, who was the king of inauthenticity. What did it matter what a thing truly was, or what it truly meant? Meaning was for suckers, or for intimacy. Blaise's greatest illusion was himself.
"I should probably be off, then," Neville said, re-entering the bedroom for his trousers and hastily donning them. "That was fun," he added, because it seemed a polite thing to say. Thank you for the hospitality of both your genitalia and your home, or something along those lines. Thank you for sharing your relationship with me for an evening but you may have it back now, carry on.
"Next time we should film it," suggested a gravelly-voiced Charlie from where he was wrapped around Tonks, which felt like mostly politeness as well. The presumption of any sort of next time felt like something the two of them would surely rethink in the morning, when they were sober and clearer-eyed.
"A novel idea," Neville agreed, making his excuses and swinging open the door to their flat, pausing only to catch the sounds of Charlie and Tonks whispering to each other, kissing between small peals laughter, preparing for sleep or some other conquest they would face with their arms tight around each other.
He stepped out into the night, opting to walk. Where? Unimportant. Not that it was an ideal time to be an obviously rich man waltzing around the dark in an Armani suit, but the idea of being inside any form of transport felt terribly constricting.
From his pocket, his phone rang. Michael? Likely Michael. Neville withdrew it from the inside of his jacket and froze, seeing the name on the screen.
He let it ring once more, then another.
Then he raised the phone to his ear.
"I thought you were done with me?" he said, aiming for an ironic tone and wondering if Blaise would know better, or if he'd hear his voice shake. Probably, definitely. Maybe. And even if he didn't, it would still save Neville the cost of admission, which even he could not afford.
On the other end, a muffled sound, like laughter.
"Hello?" Neville said, frowning.
Another sound (definitely a sound, not a voice) and then a woman's laugh of, "Blaise!"
Neville stopped mid-stride, listening.
"—don't know why you even wear these, minus twenty points for this contraption, it was clearly designed for me to die in pursuit of—"
Neville shut his eyes.
"Stop it with the points, you idiot—"
So, it was Tracey Davis again. Interesting. She had come and gone during their period of trysts, as she had before and presumably would again. Neville had asked Blaise once or twice why Tracey, to which his answer was always the same: Because with her, love costs me nothing.
"I would rather have love than sex," Neville remarked into the phone. The sounds were less a matter of laughter now, getting further and further away. "I remember your answer to that question that night, you know. I remember that it was the same as mine."
For Blaise, clothes were a form of expression, dressing and undressing. He would be unpeeling Tracey now, stripping her petals slowly.
"I didn't mean to destroy Hermione's career," Neville continued, beginning to walk again as he confessed to empty air. "I wasn't the one who called Rita Skeeter. With how cruel she was to you? To all of you?" A shake of his head. "Not even for my sake would I do something so despicable as to side with the actual devil."
Blaise would be kissing Tracey now. He was so proficient with slow, progressing kisses he may have very well invented them, which was a small but crucially important magic. Charlie had been a master of head, an indication he'd done it frequently enough, but for Blaise, the kiss was a piece of artistry. The trick, in Neville's estimation, wasn't so much his lips or tongue or anything his mouth could do, but the way Blaise would place his hands. The degree to which he would close the distance and, more importantly, the measure of distance he would leave. Blaise was so good at missing space, at shaping separation.
"That was Gran, unfortunately," Neville continued, neutrally carrying on in his admission. "And I know you question why I go along with her, but I can't explain it. I wish I could. She raised me," he sighed, "and she took care of me when no one would—and it isn't as easy as you think it is, telling the woman who gave me everything that now I'm perfectly willing to disappoint her. I have to choose my battles, Blaise."
Foreplay was Neville's preferred arena. He sometimes suspected he was the one who craved sex more, and had needed it in a way Blaise didn't. Neville had an urge to be touched, something people had so rarely done throughout his childhood, so it was as if at some point he'd sorted that he gave spectacular head (of both varieties) and then realized if he did it well enough, people came back. They always came back; maybe it was the desperation of how devoutly he did it that lured them. Neville had liked to look Blaise in the eye while he did it, which was the only time he really felt brave. He could be whoever he liked with Blaise's cock in his mouth.
"I didn't mean it when I said not to call me. Call me whenever you like, I'll always answer. I promise I will answer. I'm sorry for the things I said, for the person I am." Neville stopped again, meeting the end of the block. "Choose someone entirely unlike me," he advised after a moment, and then stopped to look at his phone, watching the seconds tick in silence before hanging up.
He waited a few more seconds, staring at his phone screen until it went black, and then tapped it again, waking it to dial another number.
Three rings, and then an answer. "Hello?"
"Where were you tonight?"
"Ah." Michael sounded like he'd been sleeping. "I wasn't feeling up for company, that's all. Are you just getting back?"
Neville hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Charlie and Tonks' flat. "Yes, sort of."
"Quite a late dinner," Michael said.
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry."
Silence.
"So," Michael said, clearing his throat over the sound of rustling, as if he were sitting up in bed. "Do you want to come over?"
It had been what Neville wanted—the reason he'd called, which both of them obviously knew—but still. Something knotted tightly in his throat.
"Does this bother you?" Neville asked. "Given, you know. Ginny. Susan."
"Why, is it bothering you?"
No, and that's the problem. "I guess so."
"Well," Michael said with a little laugh, "believe me, they have their own secrets. You're doing Susan a favor, trust me."
Neville considered this statement and its implications. He supposed Susan and Ginny had been sitting quite close together, as they often did, and in retrospect, perhaps Susan's awe wasn't necessarily directed at Charlie alone, but possibly at his sister.
Was it new information? Not really. Did he need to know more? Not particularly, no. Neville had been around secrets long enough not to need to question them.
"Come over," Michael said again, hearing Neville's hesitation. "We can talk in the morning."
Neville exhaled, the knot in his throat temporarily loosening.
"Ten minutes," he said, and hung up the phone, flagging down a taxi.
For the next month, all Neville heard from anyone was baby Jamie this, baby Jamie that. Pram of royal baby Willow James sold out online within five minutes of appearing on screen with Duchess Pansy! Oh, and did you see what Duchess Pansy wore? Tasteful, tasteless, better with her hair down no I prefer her hair up, wish she'd worn a less neutral shoe but oh well, everyone knows the King is old-fashioned. Did you see Hermione Granger running errands? Pish posh, nobody runs errands like that, she must have known there'd be cameras. She's dressing better these days but my goodness, doesn't she have a job? Rumor has it she's convinced Prince Draco to treat her and her parents for the holidays, spending taxpayer money. Royalty already, said with a scoff. Oh, look at baby Jamie, she's so sweet, looks just like her father. Isn't it marvelous they've passed the new marriage act? Will there be a royal wedding soon? Still a bit of a citizenship problem (an American, honestly, as if there aren't enough perfectly good British girls, whatever happened with Lady Susan Bones?) but surely one of them will come to their senses. Perhaps Draco will propose this month, isn't it obvious he ought to?, if he doesn't she's just a rather sad hanger-on, isn't she?, oh give the poor girl a rest, it's not her fault she's hardly accomplished anything, at least she's finally done something about her dreadful hair.
Between the lines were smaller tidbits, things Neville clung to, probably unwisely. Designer Daphne Nott set to open small brick-and-mortar boutique and couture workroom, designed by the Earl of Arundel himself—yes, son of the Duke of Norfolk, apparently an entrepreneur now, so long as the business in question is his wife—for a mix of purchasable pieces and custom designs for private clients. Gilderoy Lockhart recuses himself from the narrative of public life, claiming ongoing legal settlement and requisite NDA. Interestingly, Rita Skeeter's new royal source seems awfully chatty—what's going on in the Palace, always so notoriously tight-lipped? Surely someone should be sacked, only whose office is responsible for the leaks? Not Prince Lucius, it seems, as the Prince of Wales is noticeably absent. His health? His marriage? Princess Narcissa recently had her personal jewelry appraised, her sister Bellatrix appears to have purchased a new country home. Interesting, interesting.
Things heating up between Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis, it appears. The two were seen canoodling (always canoodling, why was it only canoodling when it came to the rich and/or famous?) in a private booth, in a restaurant opening, at a new gallery, on the street. Fashion icons Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini make street-style headlines in statement winter coats and scarves, in contrast to Duchess Pansy's new affinity for demure coatdresses. Yes, the coatdress is in thanks to the now sold-out look by Daphne Nott, you heard it here first! But should you lack the atelier of the royal and soon-to-be royal—we think, though what's taking so long?—women, by all means look to Tracey Davis, caught here with beau and financial advisor Blaise Zabini on a leisurely Sunday stroll. Blaise Zabini trots out the latest from Burberry for a trip to Cartier—will it be a summer wedding for the couple?
"Neville, finish your tea, dear," Augusta said, frowning as she looked up from her copy of the Daily Prophet. "By the way, has Susan confirmed for brunch next week?"
Yes, no, what did it matter. "Sure," Neville said, and Augusta arched a brow.
"Neville," she said. It was the same tone in which she said things like Neville, I did not send my only son away to be confined for the remainder of his life so that you could drag his good name through the mud, or Neville, I did not raise you as my own just so you could let some silly memoir destroy this entire family. "Surely I do not have to ask you to remember your manners?"
"I'm sorry, Gran. I will confirm with her this evening," he amended.
Augusta's lips pursed in reference to his plans. "I do wish you'd stay home, Neville. Remember, you never know who's watching," she tutted.
"Susan's going to be there," Neville pointed out. "I can't exactly avoid it."
Augusta sniffed an indication that she agreed, but didn't wish to. "Who else?"
"Ginevra Weasley, I believe."
"They're very close," Augusta noted. "Though I do wish Susan would choose better company. Is she no longer spending time with Astoria Greengrass?"
"Astoria has been traveling, as I understand it." 'Traveling' being a word for whatever she was up to with her latest international boyfriend, not that Neville had any clue, really. She was loyal enough to her sister to avoid him at all costs, ever since the time he'd had a bit too much whisky and asked her how the rest of the group was doing. "Besides, what's wrong with Ginny?"
"Oh, nothing," Augusta said, looking as though she didn't quite mean it. "Much as I cared little for Pansy, she was remarkably well-positioned. I'm afraid Susan may be losing a bit of her prestige, don't you think? I'd hate for people to speculate unfairly."
Ah yes, imagine it, unfair speculation. Not unlike releasing sordid information to Rita Skeeter, of course, but that was purely in the interest of the family.
"I should go," Neville said, feeling a festering bitterness and rising to his feet, kissing his grandmother's cheek. She, per usual, sniffed her reply. "Happy New Year, Gran," he said, and pulled away, preparing to leave.
She, however, caught his arm, holding him steady.
"You've seemed a little off, dear," she told him in a low voice. "Something wrong?"
He cleared his throat. "No," he said, aiming for brightness. "Of course not."
"Are you sure?"
"Nothing important, Gran, I'm fine."
He attempted to pull away again, but she held on. "Neville," she said, "do you know, I was the first to notice when my darling Frank's mind started to go?"
Neville froze, swallowing.
"It was so small, at first. Nearly inconsequential. Unimportant, one might say, only I knew better. I'm his mother, of course, so naturally I noticed when he wasn't himself." She paused, considering Neville for a long moment, and added, "I'd so hate to see something similar happen to you, sweetheart. It killed me to have to send Frank away—but it was in his best interest, as you know," she sighed, "getting him the help he so desperately needed."
She looked up, giving Neville a pained smile, and then slowly, she released her hold on him, fussing maternally with his collar.
"You know, you're looking more and more like your father every day," she told him, smoothing his lapel. "I'm so very proud of you, Neville, for being the man he couldn't be."
Neville flinched, then straightened.
"See you Sunday, Gran," he managed to force out, turning away with a sudden numbness.
"Oh, of course, dear," Augusta replied, calling after him with a wave.
The party was more of the same. Sometimes, Neville liked to cast the others as if they were Blaise's friends. Ginny could be Pansy, maybe, and perhaps Susan could be Hermione. Astoria, who had in fact made it that evening, made for a close enough Daphne.
Unfortunately, it only got less effective from there. Ron was… certainly not Harry, much less any of the others. Seamus made for a more destructive Theo, but not much else. Then there was Charlie, Tonks…
It wasn't easy, recreating other people from the ones who existed so unavoidably in his mind. Neville took a sip from his bottle and turned away from Charlie and Tonks, slipping into the back corridor and hoping they wouldn't see him.
"Hey," Michael said, catching him before he slid outside to the courtyard. "Where are you off to? It's freezing out there, and besides, everyone's in the dining room—"
Everyone. Which was, for all intents and purposes, no one.
Abruptly, Neville was overcome with a crippling sense of necessity.
"Mind if I borrow your phone?" Neville asked Michael suddenly. "Mine's dead."
"Hm? Sure," Michael said, digging for it in his pocket and handing it to Neville. "Everything alright?"
"Yes, yes, fine. I'll be inside in a moment," Neville told him. "Oh, passcode—"
"Right, right—here," Michael said. "No snooping, eh?"
"No snooping," Neville promised. That was the one line he never crossed. "Thanks, Michael."
Michael glanced around, inspecting for an audience, and then leaned forward, kissing Neville quickly on the mouth. "See you later?" he asked in an undertone. "Could find an empty bedroom, maybe, if we're lucky."
"In a bit," Neville agreed, and Michael nodded with a smile, slipping into the corridor as Neville made his way into the courtyard.
He dialed the number, raising the phone to his ear.
"Well, this is certainly odd," came the drawl from the other end. The background voices were relatively loud, indicating he was also at a party. "When did you give me your number, Corner? I always thought that whole thing was going to be buried in the recesses of our collective imaginations but eh, here we are, I suppose—"
"It's me," Neville said, and Blaise stopped.
"Oh," he said. "What are you doing with—"
"I knew you wouldn't answer if you saw my number. Don't hang up," Neville added, and Blaise made a low sound, like a scoff. A scoff-laugh.
"I deleted your number long ago, Neville. In case you forgot, you asked me to."
A pause. Blaise was lying, obviously. Wasn't he? It wasn't as if his phone had a mind of its own, and it had called Neville not more than a month ago. It had called him. Had he imagined it? He'd been extremely drunk that night, so perhaps he had. Fuck, no, of course he didn't imagine it, what was the more likely scenario?
No, Blaise was a liar, and so was he.
"What do you want, Neville?" Blaise asked. Not particularly patiently.
"I—" He didn't know, exactly. "I need to talk to you."
"Not to overstate the obvious, but you're talking to me right now." By now, the background noise was gone. Blaise had clearly gone somewhere quieter, which was a promising sign. He intended to continue the conversation.
Neville glanced over his shoulder, covering the mouthpiece before saying, "In person. Please."
"Why?"
"Something's happened." Jesus, as if he hadn't told enough lies, now he was inventing an emergency. Maybe Augusta was right; he wasn't well. Maybe he really, truly wasn't well. You remind me of your father—always wanting things you shouldn't, Augusta had said once, holding Blaise's shirt like a warning in her hands.
"Neville. What's happened?"
Neville shut his eyes.
"You're gone," he said, or tried to say. "You're gone. I hate it, that's what's happened."
Blaise, by some miracle, didn't mock him. Didn't admonish him.
Instead, Blaise said with a forced brightness, "Actually, I'm glad you called."
Neville's throat tightened. "No, you're not."
"No," Blaise laughed, "I'm not, but it's not not convenient." He paused a moment, and then said, "Meet me at my flat in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes?" That would be a suspicious disappearance, but he'd certainly committed worse. "Fine."
"Just to talk, Neville," Blaise warned.
"Of course."
"I mean it."
You always mean it, Neville thought, and I always convince you otherwise. "I know."
"See you soon, then."
"See you," he said breathlessly, and hung up the phone, deleting the call log.
Then he half-sprinted back to Michael.
"I have to go," he said, shoving the phone in his palm. "Something came up with Gran. Tell Susan I'll call her in the morning," he added over his shoulder, disappearing as Michael called something after him in tones of concern: Are you alright, is everything okay, Neville are you listening?
He made it to Blaise's flat in seven minutes, never stopping to breathe. He took the stairs two at a time, banging on the door twice with the soft side of his fist.
Blaise opened it. "Early," he observed, drily disapproving. He was holding a martini in one hand, clearly in the process of making it, and Neville looked from the glass to Blaise, then back to the glass.
Then he shoved Blaise inside, set the glass on the table, and took Blaise's face between his palms as he kicked the door shut behind him.
"I'm going to kiss you," he said, watching Blaise struggle to hide his surprise. "You are going to kiss me back. We're going to argue for no more than ten minutes. You're going to tell me I'm a selfish coward and I'm going to call you an arrogant prick. You'll tell me to leave, and then I'll kiss you again. You'll tell me you hate me." Something pricked at Neville's throat, knotting itself again. "I'll tell you I've always hated you and then you'll take off my jacket, my shirt. I'll kick off my shoes but you'll force me to remove yours one by one, untying the laces carefully. I'll blow you right there," he said, pointing to the spot where he would inevitably lean against the wall, his forearm holding him up while Blaise pulled at his trousers, "and it will be your idea to have sex. You'll tell me you've missed me and I'll call you a liar."
He paused, a little winded.
"I will tell you I love you while I'm inside you," he said hoarsely. "You'll say nothing in return, and you will say my name only once: at the moment I make you come."
Blaise stared at him for a second, considering him, and in answer, Neville stroked his cheeks, his temples, in a motion that was more gruff than tender; an ungentle assessment that everything was as he left it.
"Well," said Blaise, who didn't pull away, but reached blindly for his martini, taking an indulgent sip. "Better get started, then," he said, replacing the glass on the table and giving Neville an expectant look.
Then Neville exhaled, able to breathe for the first time in weeks, and pulled Blaise's mouth to his.
"She knew," Neville said to Blaise's chest, resting his cheek somewhere north of Blaise's pulse when they'd finally fallen still, both gradually catching their breaths. "Gran," he clarified, when Blaise's touch on his back indicated his confusion; a little question mark. "She knew about you. She told me I'd have to propose to Pansy after she found one of your shirts in my wardrobe," he explained, unsure why he hadn't simply confessed it sooner.
There was a pause.
Then, gradually, Blaise's fingers returned to work, tracing little runes of nothing onto Neville's back.
"Astoundingly, you might've said no," he replied, eyes closed.
That, Neville remembered. That was why he hadn't said anything when it happened.
"You don't understand. It's not that simple."
"Then explain it," Blaise said. "I'm something of a not-idiot, when the time calls for it."
It wasn't a question of idiocy or non-idiocy but rather a matter of putting it into words, which Neville already knew he couldn't. Instead, he marinated in silence, glancing at the clock.
"Do you remember," he began, tentative, and felt a rumble of Blaise's laughter.
"The first time I told you not to kiss me? Regrettably, you make a habit of forcing me to repeat myself," Blaise lamented drily. "Particularly on New Year's."
Neville cleared his throat, shifting to look up at Blaise's placidly resting face.
He'd been honest then. Maybe he could try being honest now.
"I've always known my gran's the one who sent my father away," Neville murmured. "I think she saw him as a mistake she made, and then decided she wouldn't do it again. That she wouldn't raise another bad egg." He paused. "I'm her second chance, but then I turned out to be… me."
A beat of silence.
"Tragic," Blaise said.
Neville had missed that, his cruelty. Blaise and Pansy had both possessed such a stunning capacity to wield some emotional, psychotic knife whenever the moment called for something gentle. It was part of the reason he'd secretly wanted to have them both, because at least they were never cruel in the same way.
Besides, Neville was quietly masochistic.
"I think she'd send me away like she did with him, if it came down to it," he said. "She implies it constantly, that if I turn out like my father, she'll just lock me up, too."
Blaise cracked one eye. "Could she?"
Leave it to him to consider logistics at a time like this. "How should I know?" Neville shrugged. "She did it before."
"Yes, but your father was rarely lucid," Blaise said. "You told me that yourself."
"I know, but—" Neville broke off, grimacing. "I know, but it's not as if I don't have… moments. Times I feel… broken. Abnormal." He shifted, rolling on top of Blaise, and said, "How do I know he wasn't like me when she first sent him away? He could have gotten worse over time." He reached out to trace the shape of Blaise's nose, his eyes and cheeks. "I," he corrected himself, confessing it for the first time. "I could get worse, over time."
"Ah, so you're stupid enough to believe her, then," Blaise said, sitting up and pulling Neville with him. "Is that all it is?" he asked, incongruously dragging Neville into his arms as he taunted him. "You couldn't be with me because you thought your grandmother might send you away like some unwed Victorian mother, is that it?"
The best thing about Blaise was how beautifully he sparked Neville's anger. Neville always preferred to be angry than scared, considering it a brutal favor, and he sat up with tension in his jaw, nearly wiring it shut.
"Don't mock me," Neville said bitterly, managing to grit it through his teeth. "Don't pretend as if you're not equally afraid of becoming your father. Doesn't it occur to you that you might even be worse?"
"Yes," Blaise said simply. "It occurs to me quite often, actually."
"And you're going to judge me for doing the same?"
"No," Blaise said, and pulled Neville closer, into something that was equally an embrace and a chokehold. Something they had never done, really—a hug, how dastardly—and Neville went limp, either acquiescing or permitting himself defeat.
"I love you," Neville said, hating himself through every word of it; hating that he said it so desperately, and that it was never said to him. "I love you. I wish I could undo it, all of it. I love you," he repeated, and Blaise's hold on him was so tight he couldn't breathe, and didn't want to. "Please," he begged, half-crying, half-sweating, "please, can we go back to how it was? I won't ask anything of you, I swear, I won't make demands, it won't be like last time—"
"I'm marrying Tracey," Blaise said, and Neville choked on the breath he hadn't fully taken. "That's what I wanted to tell you," he added neutrally. "I'm proposing to her quite soon, I think. Not sure when, but I know it's coming."
"But—"
Neville blinked.
Then he shoved Blaise away, wrenching himself free with enough force to bruise them both.
"But we just fucked," Neville said furiously, and Blaise shrugged. One of his falser shrugs, indicating he was suppressing something by way of forced impassivity.
"Yes, for the last time. Sorry," he added insincerely, "though, I didn't think you'd mind, considering the fact you were the one to turn me away last time. Or have you forgotten that you fucked me and then told me not to call?"
Everything Neville had ever felt or done or said with Blaise always felt like a memory from a blackout. Yes, it might have happened, conceivably, but then no, it never felt real, never like something he might have actually done. He was never himself with Blaise. He was closest to insanity like this, with him. He was most like his father in Blaise's arms.
"We're done here," Blaise said. "I told you, we're done."
"And what was this, then?" Neville snapped. "What am I, a toy?"
"A bad habit," Blaise corrected, "and one I shortly plan to cure."
The idea that he could say that, as if Neville were some sort of virus, was as disemboweling as it was mutually true.
"Even you aren't this cruel," Neville spat, hoping he meant it, and Blaise leaned forward, catching the back of his head to hold it steady.
"Actually, I can be far crueler," Blaise said quietly, pressing his forehead to Neville's. "Did you know, I've loved you this whole time? I came that night, the night I made up with Pansy, to tell you I was ready to be yours," he said with a bitter laugh, and Neville could taste it. Equal parts gin and vermouth, the flavors of Blaise Zabini's honesty.
"But you," Blaise murmured to Neville's mouth, shaking his head. "You will never be ready to be with me. I knew it then, and I still know it."
"Blaise," Neville said hoarsely, but he returned the kiss anyway, dissolving into it. "Blaise, please don't—"
"Deny it," Blaise muttered, one hand around Neville's jaw to tip his head back. "Tell me I'm wrong, that you'll choose me. Go ahead, try," he said, with an angry scrape of teeth to Neville's throat. "You can't do it, Neville. You and I both know you never will."
He wanted to. Desperately, devastatingly, he wanted to, but couldn't.
"So we're done here, then," Neville said. Blaise's hand tightened around his neck and he shoved him back against the sheets, shaking his head. "We're done here," he mumbled, and lowered his mouth, sinking his teeth into Blaise's shoulder.
"After tonight, yes," Blaise hissed in pain, shoving Neville onto his back. "After tonight, believe me, everything we are is done."
And it was, thanks to me. Sure, it sounds as if he's the one who pushed me out, but I think it's fairly obvious now that if I'd simply said no—no, I want you, please—he would have chosen me over Tracey in a heartbeat, and surely it's equally obvious I couldn't get him out of my head. To this day, I don't understand it; the way I walked out of his life without a fight. How many times had I lied to everyone else? I could have done it then, to Blaise. I could have lied to him, put him off with false reassurances of my devotion like I'd done with Pansy and Susan, and maybe things would have been different. Maybe if I'd done it, things between us would have actually been done.
But I didn't, and they aren't.
At least, not as of today.
a/n: I will be gone all of next week (I'm hiking in Snowdonia, which is not, in fact, the kingdom from Frozen but an actual real place), but I'm planning to get back to our normal schedule the following Tuesday. See you then, and thank you for reading!