Chapter 1: Consolation

The next day, Neville walked around in a haze. He hadn't actually slept, as he'd tried. Instead, he'd simply lied in bed, repeating the same thought over and over in his head.

He hates me… He hates me… He hates me…

Despite Harry having said he would remain his friend, he couldn't help but take the request for a day's distance as a sign of the worst. It was in Neville's nature to worry, even if he was often too oblivious to notice when real trouble was present.

He hadn't the will to speak. In the morning, he waited for his roommates to leave for breakfast, all the while pretending to sleep. Then, he sat up, and went through his morning ritual. He stripped out of his pajamas, pulled fresh clothing and a clean robe from his trunk, and slipped them on. He grabbed his books, his wand, and went through the door, travelling through the Gryffindor commons, out the portrait hole, and straight toward his first class: potions. He wouldn't be attending breakfast that morning.

Neville walked through the door to the potions room, and Snape gave him his usual sneer. "A little early, aren't we?"

Neville said nothing. He simply took his seat, and continued his blank stare into space.

When class finally started two hours later, he took notes automatically. His body moved of its own accord, and when his potion exploded as usual, he remained unmoved. The blast never registered in his brain. He continued on, cleaning himself, the desk, and his cauldron out. Even Snape seemed to notice his state, as normally, he would have taken ten points for the debacle. Instead, he simply removed Neville's cauldron, and board of ingredients. For the remainder of the class, Neville sat down, and stared at his desk.

He hates me… He hates me…

A half-hour later, he walked out the door, and meandered off toward his next class.

All day, he moved seeing nothing but the path ahead. In his mind, the halls were cold and empty, as were the dorms, and the classrooms. There were no students, and no professors. Just empty halls, and disembodied voices. Even in Herbology, his escape from the day, he could only find himself going through the motions. He entirely skipped lunch.

Finally, late in the day, he snapped. He could feel the sting of tears building in his eyes, his breath hitching, and the need to truly be alone creeping in on him. He hurried through the halls, searching, found one without students, and began hunting for an abandoned room. He came upon a large, dark-wooden door, and opened it to find a familiar clutter of old, useless things. Desks, chairs, stained and dented cauldrons, and other bits and pieces that had long since been forgotten… It was the Room of Requirement.

The tears had already begun their descent down his cheeks by now, so he found a nice, well-hidden corner, buried himself within it, and let go.

He had been weeping for nearly ten minutes when he heard a clinking sound from somewhere in the room, like heavy glass contacting the stone floor. He listened closely, and soon heard a sniffle come from his left. He stood, suddenly very shameful of his emotional state, and looked in that direction to see who had been there to hear his weep. It took some scanning, but eventually, his eyes rested upon a well-known tuft of wavy, red-orange hair.

"Ron?" he called, embarrassed to hear that his voice was strained from crying for so long.

The ginger boy shot up, his pale, freckled cheeks in full blush, and his brilliant blue eyes wide with surprise and fear. "Nev! Oh… Uh… I didn't realize that was you in here…" Neville noticed a rather large clear-glassed bottle in his hand, but he couldn't read the label from his current distance.

"Um… Yeah. I guess you know why I'm here… What about you?"

"Oh… I just… needed to be alone." Ron had calmed from his shock, and was now staring absently at the floor.

"I'll… leave, if you-"

"No," he cut in. "I think some company might actually be a good thing right now… Want some?" He held out his bottle, and Neville walked closer. On inspection, the label was in a foreign language.

"What is it?"

"It's something my brother, Charlie, sent me from Romania. It's vodka, but it's made with a magical plant that only grows there. This stuff is wicked strong."

Neville had to think about it for a bit, but after the events of last night, he decided why the hell not? He grabbed the clear bottle, and took a quick, deep swig. Immediately, he realized this was a horrible mistake, as the liquid seared his throat, sending him into a coughing fit, and his eyes watered until he could barely see.

The redhead in front of him chuckled a little, but patted him on the back. "I told you it's strong. Here, sit by me. Misery loves company." Ron sat back down in his cubby, and Neville followed, plopping with his knees drawn in the tight space. He figured he was probably a little too big to fit in here with another person (especially someone almost the same size), but at the moment, he didn't care. He took another, much more deliberate swig of the drink, and handed it back to Ron, who followed suit.

After about thirty minutes of drinking in utter silence, both of the two staring at the floor, Neville was only just beginning to feel the effects of his drink. His extremities tingled, but otherwise, he felt pretty normal… except that the silence blared in his ear like a siren. Just as he began to think it would drive him utterly mad, Ron spoke up.

"Eh, Nev?" he said, Neville relishing the possible start of some kind of conversation.

"Hm?" he replied.

"You ever wonder why love has to be such a bugger?"

Neville had in fact been wondering that very thing all week.

"I mean, you're supposed to fall in love with a nice girl, get married, have lots o' babies… But it's never that simple, is it?"

You're telling me, thought the brown-eyed boy.

"I mean… What happens if you fall in love with the wrong person?" Neville's eyes widened. Was Ron in a similar situation? "What if… Oh, bloody hell…"

"Believe me, Ron, I know how you feel…"

"Really?"

"Yeah… And I can bet I'd top whatever's got you down…" Neville didn't like making bets, even rhetorical ones, but in this case, he was pretty sure whatever Ron's problem was, it couldn't be as bad as falling in love with his closest male friend.

"I doubt that," Ron mumbled.

"Try falling in love with a bloke." Neville wasn't sure whether it was him or the alcohol talking now, but at this point, he didn't care… though he did divert his eyes to his hands, still feeling mildly awkward about having admitted this so easily.

And yet Ron looked… unshaken. If anything, he actually looked more at ease. "Well, if that's it, I got ya beat, no problem. Not only did I fall for a bloke, but… I fell for my best friend."

Realization dawned on Neville in an instant. Not only did they both have feelings for men, but they had even fallen for the same guy. "Y-You mean Harry?"

"…Yeah…"

"Same here." Ron's eyes widened just a little, but a sly smile followed it.

"Fuck… Well, look at the bright side… Least he isn't snogging your sister… Or worse…"

"Ouch." Neville hadn't thought about that. Ron definitely won the 'my love-life is tragic' contest…

"Damn green eyes."

Neville laughed for the first time all day, and Ron smiled a little bigger, too.

Many swigs later, they set the bottle down to hear the pitch of the glass much higher than it had been before. It wasn't until right then that Neville noticed exactly how much vodka they really consumed. The bottle, which was about a quarter empty when they started, was now very nearly gone.

Apparently, Ron had been thinking the same thing, because he picked the bottle back up, shook it around a little, and then swallowed the last bit. He set the bottle off to the side, and gave Neville a mildly drunken look. He hadn't quite noticed, but now that he thought about it, Ron drank a lot more of the bottle than he did, and guessed that he would soon be paying for it. But Neville was still definitely buzzed. He had a low tolerance for alcohol, and could tell that drunkenness was probably swooping in very soon for him as well.

Once more, the two sat in silence, but this time, with no alcohol to distract them. Neville then felt a cold chill in the room. He looked to see if there was an open window, but with the room the way it was at the moment, he discovered there were no windows. He shivered a little, and found Ron leaning into him. The ginger boy was warm, wonderfully so. It was soothing to Neville. He rested his head on Ron's, and wrapped an arm around him, which was joined by his friend's. It was… peaceful. For the first time in a week, Neville felt relaxed, like his world may not actually crash in on itself. Like happiness still stood a chance.

He also felt the vodka leaving its mark. His vision was slowly shifting into a watery, blurred version of itself, and he felt his mind going a little fuzzy. Still, he allowed himself to stay there; to enjoy the comfort that rested within a friend who knew what it was like to love someone you could never have, and who was there for him… and who was so impossibly warm!

Then he felt a tiny jerk and a squeak that indicated Ron had hiccupped, and Neville found himself giggling contentedly at it.

"Y'Know," slurred Ron, "who needs Harry?"

Neville went from giggling to outright laughing, mainly because of the sound of his friend's voice, and his own drunken stupor. When he came down from his laugh, he found himself sighing. "Appar'ntly, we do."

"Nah! Mean, he's straight, so wha'ssupoina goin' on like this?"

"So… What, you sayin' we just forget 'bout 'him, 'n' move on?" Neville was now finding it just as difficult as Ron to properly form words.

"Pffft! That ain't happ'nin'! Not when I see'm naked in th'locker room ev'ryweek."

That thought suddenly had Neville very aroused, both mentally, and physically, and the sober part of him now buried in the back of his mind was very happy that his legs were still pulled up.

"Nah, I's jus' thinkin'…" He sat, quiet for a brief moment. "I don' remember…"Neville giggled again, but Ron lifted his head (forcing Neville to lift his, much to his dismay), and gave him a very intent look. His facial expression made it difficult to tell whether he was thinking very deeply, or just very, very horny. Neville suspected it was a bit of both. "Oh," he finally broke in, "I… think I rememb'r now. I w's just thinkin' that… maybe…" He kept that intent gaze, and began moving closer, which Neville found interesting, considering they were already leaning on one-another, embraced against the chill of the stone room… Then he realized what Ron was doing.

"Wait, I…" But it was too late. Ron's lips closed around his. He almost fought it, but the feeling of contact, added in with the alcohol, was too great a rush. He pushed into the kiss, deepening it with his tongue. Ron's mouth tasted strangely sweet. He couldn't place why, but he wanted more. They broke away only when they found they needed air, Ron's teeth nipping at his lower lip, and after a heavy inhale, their mouths joined once again. Neville managed to make his way on top of Ron's lap, which was even warmer than the rest of him. He straddled his legs, and continued their fevered kisses.

After a few minutes of the passion-play, they had finally slowed back down and Neville found himself breaking apart from Ron's mouth with what he assumed to be the most ridiculous expression of his life. He was utterly wowed by the whole experience, and it appeared Ron was in the same boat, as he stared back at the brown-eyed boy with contented amazement.

Neville leaned back in to the redhead, but rather than joining their mouths again, he rested his head on the boy's shoulder, nuzzling his cheek into his neck. Ron was so… warm. He even smelled warm, and sweet, and heavy, like hot, liquid chocolate. Neville felt his body melt over the boy, every tense muscle releasing itself, and he wrapped his arms around Ron, and squeezed, happy when Ron returned the favor. There, they sat, wrapped within one another, until slowly, Neville felt himself drift off to sleep.