Harry wasn't entirely certain that the walls weren't closing in on him. He stared at the parchment in his hand, his heart hammering in his ears.
"If that letter says what I think it says, then 'oh shit' is about right," Hermione said heatedly.
"Please," Harry said, ignoring Hermione's anger and facing her pleadingly, "Please don't tell Neville."
Hermione's jaw dropped slightly in shock, then her brows knit together. "If you're seriously going to try and keep this from him you're even more worthless than I thought—"
"No," Harry interrupted quickly, running his hand through his hair restlessly. "No, it's that—I don't want him to hear it from someone else. He deserves to hear it from me."
"Then you'd best get going," Hermione said firmly.
"Now?" Harry sputtered.
"Fine, make yourself decent first. Then go." Hermione turned on her heel and strode briskly from the room.
"Wait!" Harry said, reaching out as though to grab her. Hermione made an impatient noise and turned. "Please don't tell Ron either."
"He's my husband," Hermione said haughtily, "And he has the right to know what's gone on—"
"His sister's sex life is none of his business, nor is mine," Harry said firmly. "The only other person who has an absolute right to know is Neville."
Hermione pursed her lips. "Fine. I'm not going to argue with you when you actually speak sense. Get clothes on. Go to Neville. And you'd better be as humble as pie and positively dripping with remorse or I will personally draw and quarter you." She turned and flounced out of the room, slamming the door behind her as she went.
Harry grabbed his wand from his bedside table, jabbed it briskly at the belongings Hermione had unpacked for him, and shoved whatever didn't fit nicely into his overnight bag until he could work the zipper closed. Then he swore and unpacked it again to fish out a shirt, trousers, and underpants, pulled them on hastily, and shoved everything back in. Wrinkles were a problem he could deal with later.
Hermione was very pointedly ignoring him as he came downstairs. He grimaced, then touched her on the shoulder.
"Yes?" she asked coldly, putting down the book she was reading as though she was tremendously put upon.
"Please tell Ginny that I'm not just running out on her. I don't..." he ran out of words and looked at Hermione helplessly.
She sighed and nodded. "I suppose you're not a totally irresponsible and vile human being," she relented. "I'll tell her. I'll even make it sound like you said it, instead of just looking at me with puppy dog eyes." She shook her head and even through her anger, Harry thought he could detect a very small smile. "Even now I'm doing your damn homework for you."
"Thank you," Harry said simply. Hermione waved it away and picked up her book.
"Go home, Harry. You have some serious explaining to do, and I can't help you with that."
Harry paused with his hand just above the knob of the door to Twelve Grimmauld Place. On the other side of the door was the man he loved so much it hurt, and he was coming home to tell him...
What in the seven bloody hells was he going to say?
Some rational part of his brain told him that if he stood there agonizing over it, things would only get worse. Before he could freeze up, he opened the door. After that, there was nothing to do but walk through it.
There was a rustling sound on the stairs that led down to the kitchen, and then Neville appeared, apparently having run up the steps very quickly.
"Harry!" he exclaimed, launching himself across the remaining space and catching Harry in an exuberant hug that somehow made Harry feel even worse. "I am a moron and a fool and whatever else you want to call me," Neville said as he pressed his forehead to Harry's to look him in the eyes. "I am so, so sorry. I was wrong. We can work through this, we can work through anything—oh god, I'm so glad you came back..."
"Neville," Harry said in a choked voice. "I...I did something bad."
"Whatever it is, I don't care," Neville said, moving his head to rest on Harry's shoulder. "I forgive you in advance."
"I slept with Ginny."
The words had just come out, blunt as could be. They almost seemed to echo through the entryway, and Harry felt something inside him curl up and want to die. He wanted to cringe away from Neville's touch as every muscle in Neville's body stiffened. He very, very slowly released Harry to hold him at arm's length by the upper arms, studying him carefully. Harry bit his lip.
He knew that, as a wizard, he had a long life span ahead of him. Assuming he didn't get himself killed, he had a hundred years or more to look forward to. At that moment, he would give up every single second of them to erase the expression of shock, hurt, and wounding that angled Neville's eyebrows, drew a tightness to the corners of his eyes, and struck Harry to the very center of his soul.
"I didn't mean for it to happen," he said softly, hating the way his voice sounded—steady, controlled; surely he should be on his knees sobbing, surely there should be some sort of emotion in his voice, but he couldn't summon any up that wouldn't end in his chest bursting. "I never, ever meant to hurt you. I was...it was stupid. And selfish. I thought we were over, and I needed comfort, and..." Ah, there was the shaking of the voice, the thickness to the consonants, the burning in the eyes. "Neville, I am so sorry," he said, reaching out to touch Neville's shoulder.
Neville stepped back and away from his hand, wrenching Harry's heart to the side along with him. "I'm sorry," he said in a voice no louder than a whisper. It seemed to be the only thing he could say now, and he said it again, but no words came out and so his lips only made the shapes. He felt as though a knife were twisting through his ribs with every breath, and tears began to stream down his cheeks. He wiped them away hastily and took a great ragged breath. "I...god, Neville, I didn't do it to hurt you, I swear it..."
"No," Neville said softly. "You wouldn't do that. I know you too well." He took a deep breath himself and turned to lean on a table in the hallway. He shook his head, and suddenly made a fist and slammed it on the table. "Dammit Harry!" he said with such force that Harry jumped. He turned and Harry's breath caught at the expression on Neville's face—hurt, disappointment, grief, anger, all rolled into something so profoundly painful that it made his insides twist. "Tell me, why don't I feel surprised? Why do I feel like the other shoe that I've been waiting for just dropped? Tell me, Harry, why have I been expecting this?"
Harry couldn't breathe. "I don't know," he managed to choke. "I—I didn't ever mean—"
"No, and that's always the problem," Neville interrupted. "You never mean to do anything wrong. You never think about how anything you're ever doing could affect other people. I knew that one day that was going to come around and bite you in the ass and now it has and you've drawn me in for the collateral damage." He paused to rub his eyes and take a few deep breaths. "I was so stupid," he said in a tone that was suddenly helpless, his hands still over his eyes. "I should never have sent you away. I ruined us."
Harry's heart gave a lurch. "Neville, we're not...I don't want us to be ruined."
"Bit late," Neville said, bringing his hands down.
"No," Harry said, desperation suddenly vying for a spot in the roil of emotions bubbling within him. "No, Neville, we can't be—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do it, please, there's still something here for us—"
"There was!" Neville said forcefully. "There was when I sent that owl, hoping that I could do something to repair the damage I'd done! But things just went out of control and...Harry," he said, and there were tears in his voice, "We could have gotten over whatever was plaguing us before. But this?" He shook his head sadly. "I don't care that you thought we were through. Our bed hadn't even gotten cold before you were in Ginny's. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?" He flung the words like darts, clipped, precise, and they struck Harry right in the heart.
"No," he said as he lowered his face into his hands. "I don't. Do you have any idea how sorry I am? How much it hurts to know that I've hurt you this badly?"
"Go back to Ginny," Neville said with a sudden heat. "Maybe she'll nurse your hurt. Or your cock, whichever pleases you most."
The words hung in the air between them like a cloud of venom. Harry froze, stricken, as Neville's face softened slightly as if realizing the weight of what he'd said, but instead of saying anything further he turned and started up the stairs.
Harry tried once more. "Neville...please don't..."
"I'll be out by Tuesday," was the only reply before a door upstairs slammed.
Numbly, Harry opened the door and stepped outside. Paying hardly any attention at all, he turned on the spot and Disapparated back to the only place he could think of.
When Hermione answered the door again, he took one look at her still-angry expression and the fingernail-grip of control he had left fled. He threw himself forward with a great, primal sob and for a wonder she caught him and held him.
"I've lost him" was all he could say coherently, only dimly taking in the image of Ron and Ginny still at the breakfast table, Ron looking confused, Ginny pale with shock. "I've lost him and it's all my fault."
And then Ron and Ginny were there, one of them rubbing his back as he cried like he hadn't since childhood. Somehow he was sitting now, in the same chair Hermione had put him in yesterday, and she was holding his hand as Ron spread a blanket across his shoulders and Ginny sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, looking miserable.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, studying the carpet at her feet. "I didn't mean..." and then she was crying too, sobbing into her hands. Ron exchanged a baffled glance with Hermione, who shook her head in a distinct "not now" gesture. He knelt down next to his sister and pulled her into an awkward hug, which just seemed to make her cry harder.
"I'm going to take Ginny upstairs," Hermione said softly, letting go of Harry's hand. "You stay here with Harry. Make sure..." he doesn't do anything stupid, she didn't need to say. Ron nodded and took Hermione's place on the arm of the chair, clasping Harry's hand. Hermione took Ginny by the shoulders and Ginny allowed herself to be pulled to standing and led out of the room.
It took some time before Harry could breathe without taking ragged gasps, and even longer until the sobs stopped shaking his shoulders. By the time he could raise his bleary eyes to look at Ron, he felt like a washrag that had been thoroughly wrung out, but the ache was still there in his chest that would have made him howl had he had the energy.
Ron nodded and stood up. "Come on," he said, pulling Harry up. Harry tried to shake him off but Ron tightened his grip and Harry relented, allowing himself to be led through the house to the basement.
Here was where Ron apparently kept his training equipment; Harry's attic was similarly equipped, with a Muggle punching bag and mats on the floor. Auror combat training was never officially complete, and Ron dealt with far more close, magic-free combat in his squad than most. Ron wordlessly tapped Harry's hand with his wand, causing tape to wrap itself around Harry's knuckles, then gestured at the punching bag.
"Get it all out," he said, stepping aside. "You're not nearly done."
After one half-hearted punch to the bag, Harry discovered that Ron was right—despite his exhaustion, there was still a vast reservoir of something inside him that now threatened to tear him apart if he didn't release it right this moment. Here was something that Hermione didn't understand, something that probably had never even occurred to her that he needed. He nodded grimly at Ron, who nodded back and retreated against the wall.
He threw himself into punishing the punching bag, after a short while not even caring about proper form, just hitting the bag until his arms burned and the tape on his knuckles was torn and unraveling. It wasn't until he missed the bag completely and fell over with the force of it that Ron grabbed him by the arm, hoisted him up, and dragged him to the guest room on the second floor of the house.
For the second time that weekend, Harry threw back a Dreamless Sleep flask like cheap whiskey and collapsed into bed in the middle of the morning, not even bothering to remove his shoes. The last thing he could dimly recall as sleep drew its black velvet cloak over him was Ron in the doorway saying to Hermione, "Tears me apart to see him like this," and Hermione responding, "I know. It's hard. What he's got to deal with is harder. He knows it's his fault."
Neville leaned against the door he'd just slammed, breathing hard, until he heard the front door click shut and he knew Harry was gone. He scrunched his eyes shut, holding his breath, trying to force the turmoil down into a manageable knot that he could safely ignore. He felt as though he should have tears on his cheeks, but as the colors swirled in his head he found the distance necessary to calm himself down.
His outburst had surprised him nearly as much as it had Harry. Neville didn't lash out; Harry had always been the passionate one, speaking without thinking, throwing his all into everything. Harry was the one who would be quickest reduced to tears, first to say things he didn't mean, and easiest to provoke into cutting off his nose to spite his face. Neville knew that he tended to internalize; he'd much rather brood over something than argue over it, much rather think his way through a problem than pounce on it with full steam. This was, he knew, part of what had caused them to begin drifting apart, but it was something that he had been sure they could reconcile.
And now he'd succeeded in driving Harry away.
Out of the comfort of habit more than anything, Neville drew a familiar flask from his pocket and unstoppered it. The bright, razor-thin lines that emerged from it like some infinitely complex musical score were not the source of comfort they had been previously; not only could Neville no longer decipher the future in the timelines, he also couldn't recall what his current actions had done to affect the future. What was immensely frustrating was that he remembered that he'd gleaned information, remembered being able to recall things that hadn't happened yet, and now those memories were hidden from him like a word he couldn't quite summon but knew the definition for.
Worse, it seemed that Harry no longer had any connection to what he and Neville had always called "their other life," the lives they'd lived until Time had uprooted them and sent them to correct minor errors that had led to the very collapse of time itself. The rules had obviously changed; not only were they living day-to-day rather than simply living—and changing—the significant events that needed to be changed, they were spending more and more time in the present moment, and the intervals when Neville could recall that there had ever been any other way were fewer and much farther between. And apparently Harry was completely oblivious.
"I don't understand," Neville murmured as he stared in bafflement at the lines dancing around him. "Why let me remember at all? Why not just let me be twenty-four years old, if I'm not going to be allowed to remember anything useful about the future?"
The future is now truly the future, not an alternate past like it once was.
Neville's head snapped up and he looked around for the source of the voice before realizing that nothing had actually been said; the words had simply registered in his brain as though someone had just spoken them. This had happened once before several years ago. He suddenly knew exactly what was going on, although why he would get a visitation now of all times was bemusing.
"I could always remember before. I always knew before that I was forty-one, and I could remember things in my life up until that point, even if they hadn't yet happened in the point of time I was in. Why the change? Why can't I remember anymore?"
You remembered because the timeline was similar enough to the one in which you originated that they were still one line. That timeline is no more, because you successfully changed it, splitting it into two and eliminating the first false one to which your memories were tethered. You've been remembering echoes of a future that never will be. You are starting over now, with a blank slate, and because mortals experience time in a linear fashion, you cannot remember a future that has not yet happened.
"But why make it so I can't remember anything I learned from these?" Neville waved a hand at the lines floating in the air. "I know that I used to be able to read them into the future. Why revoke that?"
You no longer need to know. Your choices will no longer prevent or cause the dissolution of Time.
"So why am I remembering at all right now? Why do I get to keep the flask?"
The flask will not appear to you again. From this point forward, despite what was told to you at the beginning of your journey, you will no longer recall the life you had, nor will you have those keen insights into the future that comforted you so. You shall weave your life's lines on your own, without guidance, as every other mortal does.
"But…the whole point of all of this was to get Harry and me together!" Neville protested, struggling to understand. "And now he's gone and I don't know why!"
That was not the point, that was the means to the point. What happens now will be the result of how you live your lives. There was a pause. I will offer you a small comfort that you shall retain: This current event that causes you so much grief is necessary to Harry's happiness in the future, as well as your own.
Neville blinked and shook his head. How long had he been sitting there, staring off into space? The clock on the bookshelf said it was only just barely ten in the morning, but how long ago had Harry left?
He swallowed hard against the nauseous feeling in his stomach. A part of him wanted to go immediately to Ron and Hermione's, where Harry must be right now, and do whatever it took to get him back. But a larger part, a part that ached with the knowledge but knew it to be true, knew that this was something that needed to happen. Much as it caused him grief, he and Harry had parted ways, and that was just the way it had to be.
Author's Note: Confused? The end of this chapter refers to events and themes present in the parent story Revisionism. The rest of the story goes without these rude interruptions, but why leave yourself confused? Revisionism is available in its entirety right now and it's got some good bits in it.