So, this is unconnected to the previous Unlikely Tale. It is AU, and they are in Sixth Year.
"Finally!" said Ron with relief as he laid down his quill on top of his finished essay (Badly-Cast Animagi Transformations Spells and their Gruesome Effect: Explain Why There Are Laws Against It). The Gryffindor students had just reached the end of their last class before the Christmas holidays, and an audible sigh of relief rippled around the classroom. Professor McGonagall peered at her seventh-year students over the top of her spectacles.
"I hope that was a sigh of disappointment that you will not have any Transfiguration classes for three weeks!" she said crisply, though the corners of her mouth twitched.
"Have a good Christmas, all of you," she added, raising her voice as the class stampeded out of the door.
Harry's heart sank. He'd always spent the Christmas holidays either at Hogwarts or at the Burrow with Ron and sometimes Hermione. But this year, he had to go back to the Dursleys' for the holidays.
Harry hadn't had a Christmas with them since he was ten years old, something for which he'd always been profoundly thankful. Unfortunately, the Dursleys had told him (with extreme reluctance) that he had to stay at Privet Drive for the holidays. Aunt Marge was coming for Christmas dinner, and had particularly requested Harry to be there. (She took great delight in criticising Harry in every way possible, and it was no good telling her that Harry was spending Christmas at the school she believed he went to, as St Brutus' was not a boarding school.) The Dursleys wished to avoid any awkward questions.
"I'm not going to have a good Christmas." Harry looked round as Neville Longbottom's voice spoke glumly in his ear. "I'm always stuck with my gran for three weeks, it's torture. " He sighed as though he carried the world upon his shoulders, then trudged off gloomily down the corridor.
"Hey," said Harry slowly, the beginnings of an idea coming to him. "Hey, Neville!"
He had been struck by an inspiration. Neville turned.
"How would you like to spend Christmas with me at Privet Drive?" said Harry, the words tumbling out in his eagerness. If Neville were there, at least he would have someone to talk to – Christmas wouldn't be half as bad! And the Dursleys' could hardly refuse, seeing as he was obliging them by coming back for Christmas in the first place.
"Spend – with you?" said Neville slowly, his round face slowly lighting up with surprise and joy. "Wow, Harry! That would be amazing – and my gran would be really pleased, she's always worried because I never go to visit any friends."
"Come back with me," said Harry firmly, "and we'll have a great Christmas."
The next day, he and Neville got off the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross station and pushed their way through the magical barrier at Platform Nine and Three Quarters. It was with great satisfaction that Harry saw the wary, then horrified expressions appear on his aunt, uncle and cousin's faces as they realised that they were not only going to be lodging one wizard in their house over Christmas, but two.
"Just what do you think you're playing at?" hissed Uncle Vernon, as Harry reached him. "We're not taking that one in also! It's bad enough with you!"
"Fine," said Harry nonchalantly, turning back towards the platform. "We'll go back to stay at Hogwarts and you can explain to Aunt Marge why I'm not here."
A few minutes later, a furious but powerless Uncle Vernon was speeding down the motorway back to Little Whinging. Dudley, was squashed, terrified, between Harry and Neville in the car passenger seat.
As Harry had foreseen, Christmas at Privet Drive with Neville was ten times better than without. The Dursleys avoided them both, and tended to exit any room they entered very quickly. Normally this would have depressed or at least slightly irritated Harry, but when he had Neville to talk to, it didn't bother him in the least. Aunt Marge arrived and, as usual, treated Harry as though he were something rather nasty she'd discovered on the sole of her shoe, but Harry stoically ignored her.
They were all sitting round the kitchen table watching television on Christmas Eve when the phone rang. Aunt Petunia went out to answer it, and returned with her face a little more pinched than normal. She pressed her hand against the mouthpiece and hissed, "Vernon, it's Mrs Figg. She wants to know if she can come for Christmas dinner."
"Why?" said Uncle Vernon, his beefy face assuming an annoyed expression. "Can't she eat with her cats like she usually does?"
"Mr Tibby got run over by a Land Rover this morning. I think she's lonely."
"Oh very well, whatever," said Uncle Vernon dismissively. "While we've got two oddballs here, why not have another." He glared at Harry and Neville, the two 'oddballs', who both continued spooning stew into their mouths as though they hadn't heard. Neville was really becoming very good at letting the Dursleys' comments bounce off him.
Harry awoke on Christmas morning to see Neville still fast asleep and a swirling storm of snowflakes waltzing outside his window. Everything had turned a dazzling white, turning even Privet Drive beautiful.
Mrs Figg arrived as Dudley was unwrapping his fifty-seventh Christmas present (a flashy new motorcycle helmet).
Harry had already opened his presents from Neville, Ron, Hermione, Mrs Weasley and Hagrid. And he just so happened to be looking at Neville when Mrs Figg shuffled through the door in her carpet slippers. Her grey hair was wispy as ever and she was clutching a large pot of cranberry sauce.
"I thought you might want this – for the turkey," she quavered, holding out the pot to Aunt Petunia, who took it gingerly, noting a large cat hair stuck to one side.
Neville's reaction to Mrs Figg's entrance had been really quite interesting. He had looked up curiously as the door to the living room opened, and Harry saw his eyes widen. Well, Mrs Figg was quite an eccentric person to look at. Her glasses were currently dangling from her neck by a knotty string of wool. But behind the battiness, she really had quite a kind face. A sweet, gentle face.
"Oh!" she said, as she saw Neville gazing at her, his mouth slightly open. "I don't think I've seen you before, my dear!"
At the words 'my dear', Neville flushed pink and stumbled over his reply.
"I – I'm Nevish, I mean Neville, Neville Longbottom."
"What a beautiful name!" beamed Mrs Figg, and Neville's flush deepened.
"You know, you really look rather like my fiancée, Theodore," she said softly, gazing at Neville wistfully. "He was killed in the war but you, you remind me of him … Ah, my darling Theo … " and she sighed. But from that moment on she stole little covert glances at Neville whenever she thought nobody was looking.
The Christmas dinner was rather an interesting affair. Harry, who was wondering what on earth was going on between Neville and his old neighbour, with alarm that Neville was giving off little outbursts of uncontrolled magic. His peas rolled around on his plate, neglected, as Neville raised his empty fork to his mouth and missed it. The peas then arranged themselves into the form of a heart. Harry stared at Neville's plate in confusion. He was slightly scared. Then he noticed Aunt Marge also giving the plate an odd look.
"Why, Vernon!" she boomed, patting his arm. "Just look! I could have sworn those peas moved –"
"Hey, Neville!" said Harry hastily, nudging Neville arm very hard so that his fork dashed across the pea-heart, breaking it up. "Why don't you tell Mrs Figg about that time when you broke your wrist in a flying lesson… "
When the peas had been forgotten, Harry wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. But the ordeal was not over.
"My poor Mr Tibbles," sniffed Mrs Figg. "Not looking where he was going, the dear thing, and got crushed under the wheels of a horrible great motor car … "
Vernon Dursley just looked impatient, and Harry felt rather awkward, but Neville then did a most surprising thing. He reached hesitatingly across the table and gently patted Mrs Figg's old, papery hand.
"It's okay … " he said comfortingly.
At the first touch of Neville's hand, Arabella Figg blushed rosy pink. She suddenly looked sweet, and girlish.
"Oh, my dear Theodore – I mean, Neville! You are kind," she gave him a watery smile. Harry could have sworn her eyelashes batted, and he looked with growing alarm and suspicion between his friend and his elderly neighbour …
That afternoon, Harry experienced one of the rather more traumatic moments of his life. Neville had disappeared from the living room while they all took tea and biscuits, saying he needed the bathroom. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Figg rose and dusted herself down.
"Thank you so much for having me, but I really must be going!" she said in her quivery old voice. "I'll see myself out … " The Dursleys nodded their curt good-byes.
"Thank God," muttered Uncle Vernon when she had gone. "Crazy old bat."
A quarter of an hour later, Neville still hadn't returned, and Harry, slightly worried about his friend, slipped out of the room. He could hear noises in the bathroom, sounds of sighing and others he couldn't identify. Harry was anxious – was Neville crying in there?
"Neville?" called Harry softly through the keyhole. "You okay?" Harry knew Neville would be embarrassed to be seen crying, but as the snuffling sounds from within the bathroom only intensified, Harry thought he should probably go in and try to help.
So Harry quietly turned the door handle and entered the room. What he saw made his stomach turn over in shock.
Mrs Figg and Neville were kissing each other passionately in the middle of the bathroom at Number Four, Privet Drive. Harry froze with horror, gaping at the scene before him, but the two were so involved they hadn't even noticed his entrance. Mrs Figg's wrinkled cheeks were pressed lovingly against Neville's and his chubby hands tugged her grey hair affectionately. Harry blinked, trying to clear his vision of the sight he beheld. But alas, when his eyes re-opened the couple were still there, solidly real as ever.
What – the – hell. They barely knew each other! They had only seen each other for the first time a couple of hours ago!
A small noise of disbelief and amazement squeaked involuntarily from Harry's mouth. "Wh - huh?"
Neville, busily engaged in burying his head in Mrs Figg's tatty old cardigan with a contented sigh, heard nothing, but Mrs Figg's eyes opened and for a second she met Harry's astounded gaze. But she didn't seem at all embarrassed at being caught. Instead, to Harry's ever-increasing astonishment and indignation, she gave him a tiny, saucy wink.
Harry finally came to his senses and realised he was standing about two feet away from the couple and gawking unreservedly at them, which might, reasonably, be seen as intruding. As he exited the room in a kind of daze, he distinctly heard Mrs Figg murmur tenderly – "Oh, Theodore!"