Harry was halfway up to Gryffindor tower, it seemed like it'd been a flash - pure adrenaline, and make no mistake. Still, he thought as he whispered the password and stepped inside, he didn't want to dwell on the upcoming duel. That'd be stupid, right? Either he'd win, or he'd lose, those were the options. Ron found someone playing a chess game and wandered off to look (leaving Harry thankful), as Harry scampered up to his room (only vaguely noting that Granger was busy with a book, and that the other first year girls were comparing notes on hairdos).

Harry had out his book on defense (which was really quite an improvement over Quirrell, who was abominable. And not in the snowman variety, which at least would be amusing when the Scottish winter ended and he got to melt into a puddle all over the floor). He was trying to read about redcaps, who really did seem about as bloody as Harry'd been trying to make himself out to be earlier. Maybe Malfoy had good reason to take him seriously.

Now, there's a thought, Harry pondered, could I wrangle a prize for winning the duel? Harry already knew what he wanted to know from Malfoy - just who exactly did he think were unsuitable people to befriend? Who were the right people?

Harry pushed that to the back of his mind and kept studying, his curtains pulled down and a soft lumos providing just enough light that it reminded him of his cupboard (Aunt Petunia had always given him a nightlight - perhaps that was why his eyes were bad enough to need glasses, but she'd also say it would keep him out of trouble. Harry'd never been able to decide exactly how he could get in trouble in a broom cupboard!).

His world dissolved, as it often did, into wand movements and lore, bits of trivia that might save his life someday. This wasn't where he liked to practice, but reading was something that Harry Potter never had enough time for, not anymore. Not since he had come up with this mad plan to convince everyone he was some sort of bloody Gryffindor.

It was hours before something broke his contemplation, broke his thoughts.

A sniffle.

Neville Longbottom was there, outside the curtains, curled up into a ball in the corner of the room, beside his bed. He was trying, in vain it seemed, to stem his tears. Harry Potter thought with a bit of a sardonic air, that a true Gryffindor wouldn't let another firstie cry - would explode out and demand to know what was wrong, or if he was slightly less of a gossip, might make a bit of a pratfall to shock the boy out of his tears and into laughter.

Harry, however, was neither of those things, and because he was who he was, he decided to indulge himself by granting Neville the privacy that he so obviously desired. Harry turned back to his books, and that was that.

Or, it would have been, if Neville had been content to keep it to crying. Harry Potter had given up on listening to him, and - without using the spell - had drawn on hardearned skills learned at the Dursleys. Let the sound travel by, don't filter it, don't let it sink in. Just let it travel on by...

The coppery stink of blood was harder to ignore, however. Harry Potter sat there a moment, paralyzed, wanting to peek out, not wanting Neville to know - and in a flash, he had it.

Harry Potter yawned. Loudly. It was fair to say that he yawned louder than he'd ever yawned in his life (before, there'd never been anyone to care, except that he could stay quiet. Harry'd proved very quiet indeed). Quickly, he mussed his hair (giving himself a case of bedhead that was only marginally worse than after he'd used a comb).

Harry tumbled out of bed, pausing to look at Neville, with his bleeding knuckles. "Oi, who'd you fight?" Harry clapped Neville on the back, and Neville found himself staring up at Harry Potter, his mouth working soundlessly.

"Myself, actually." Neville said seriously.

"No shit?" Harry asked, and Neville blushed at the blue language. "Well, that explains how you got past the Common Room without being pecked by the Mother Hens." (Harry was referring to a few of the sixth and seventh year girls who thought that the first year boys were totally cute, and had a tendency towards unwanted mothering).

Harry bent over, looking at Neville's bleeding knuckles more closely. "You might want to get that looked at, assuming you don't want to have to explain scars to your folks." Harry gave Neville, who was still looking quite baffled at how voluble Harry was, a toothy grin, "Of course, they say that girls like manly scars, so if you don't want me to tell, I won't."

"Please." Neville said, standing quietly, "Not a word."

Harry Potter nodded silently, yawned again (loudly and with four syllables), "I'ma get back ta nappin'"

"Rest well, Harry." Neville said, and it sounded like he was clinging to pleasantries. As Harry got back to reading, he figured that was better than not caring enough to want to hurt himself.

[a/n: Trying to strike a balance between Harry-The-Helpful and Harry-doesn't-care, as both are pretty well true. I'll call this the end of Sunday.

Neville, like Hermione, isn't really big on Quidditch, so that's why there's no fanboying. That, and, Neville's really not feeling up to being excited.

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