The house was still and quiet; even the grandfather clock was silent, Neville having forgotten to wind it for several days. A single candle sputtered on the landing beside their bedroom door, behind which Harry was asleep. He spent most of his time asleep, either that or staring, unfocused, at the ceiling.

Down in the kitchen the lamps were lit; not all of them, but enough to chase away most of the shadows that the fire in the grate did not. Neville sat at the table, head in his hands, trying desperately to keep them from trembling as he checked his watch every half minute or so. His breathing was shaky and ragged, his eyes red and sunken.

The flames in the grate leapt higher and turned a brilliant green; Neville stood so quickly his chair fell backwards as Tobias unfolded himself gracefully from the fireplace.

"I'm sorry I'm late, one of the cats knocked my cauldron over and I had to—" he stopped short as he took in Neville's appearance. "Blimey, Neville. You look—"

"Yes, yes, I know. Please." Neville held out a shaking hand and Tobias quickly pressed a flask into it. Neville drank the contents almost greedily, the trembling of his hands ceasing visibly as he placed the empty flask on the table.

"You can't keep doing this," Tobias said quietly.

"I can and I will, as long as he needs me."

"You've been doing this nonstop for what, a week? Neville, the grief will only get worse if you keep suppressing it like this. What if I hadn't been able to come tonight?"

"You don't understand. I have to be strong for him, otherwise..." Neville shook his head. "Just keep bringing them. I don't have time to fall apart right now."

"I shouldn't even be agreeing to this. You're going to be completely incapacitated when you finally stop."

"Then why are you?" Neville asked tiredly. Tobias sighed.

"Because I know that you got through Auror training, which means you're a fair enough hand at potions that you'd try to brew it yourself, and if you get this one wrong, things go very badly."

"I guess it's a good thing you've got my back, then." Neville ran his hand through his hair.

"You should get some sleep. You look awful."

"I feel awful," Neville admitted. "Even with the potion."

"You're going to start running into diminishing returns here. It's not meant to be taken for more than a few days. And I'm cutting you off after three more. I'll come sit on you if I have to keep you brewing it yourself, there are ingredients in this that accumulate in your bones and take weeks to leach out, and you're not doing Harry any favors by slowly giving yourself Feludian poisoning."

There was a lengthy pause. Then, "How dangerous is it?" Neville stared down at the flask on the table, his back to Tobias.

"Come again?"

"Feludian poisoning. How dangerous are we talking? How much can I get away with?"

"No." Tobias's voice took on the stern cast it got when he was chastising students. "I am not going to condone that kind of self-destructive behavior. Neville, you're hurting. For fuck's sake, let yourself hurt. You don't have to do everything."

"I'm all he's got," Neville said simply.

"He doesn't live in a vacuum with only you and him—"

"No. You don't get it. I am all he's got," Neville said, very slowly and clearly. "His parents, his godfather, Dumbledore, Remus, Ginny—I. am. all. he's. got. I'm the only one who can pull him out of this. If I crash and burn now..." He turned, saw Tobias's face full of concern. "You didn't know him after the war. I am dead serious when I say I will do anything to keep him from getting that bad again." He handed Tobias the flask, which had begun to cloud from the potion's remnants etching the glass. "Anything."

Tobias looked very hard at Neville. "Can I give you some advice? One married man to another?" One of Neville's eyebrows arched in response. "You're doing it wrong."

"Oh, well gee, thanks, that clears everything right up," Neville remarked sardonically. Tobias held up a hand.

"Let me finish. You've always been the strong one, haven't you? The one Harry looks to? The one who takes care of everything, makes it all better?" Neville nodded once. "There's nothing wrong with that...except when you've got grief that needs to be shared." Tobias sighed. "You know that my wife miscarried last winter." Another nod. "It was the first time in our marriage, in our relationship even, that we were grieving over the same thing. There can't be a strong one comforting the grieving one in that situation. You can't be the only pillar of support."

"What else am I supposed to do?" Neville asked quietly. "He needs me."

"And you need him. Let him know that. Unless I miss my mark, you've never let yourself appear vulnerable to him, have you? You've never given him the opportunity to be strong for you."

"He can't be strong right now, he's—"

"You said he rallies himself for James, when Molly brings him to visit."

"Yes, but—"

"It's because James needs him. And he knows it."

That brought Neville up short. He slowly sat down sideways in one of the kitchen chairs. Tobias pressed on.

"It's hard, exposing yourself, even to someone you trust more than anyone else. It takes a different sort of strength to let yourself go and trust another to catch you. But I think you'll find that it's very much like an archway."

"An...archway?" Neville looked slightly bewildered.

"Every stone is constantly falling. But they're falling against each other, and so they hold one another up, and that way can bear enormous burdens."

"Look, it sounds all smart when you use pithy sayings like that, but..."

"Just try it," Tobias said seriously, finally reaching out to take the flask that Neville had tried giving him. "Let yourself hurt. Let him try to mend it. There's no false dichotomy of who has to be strong here. Lean on each other. That's what a marriage is."

A slight look of panic shot through Neville's eyes. "But the potion. When it runs out..."

Tobias nodded. "It'll all hit you rather hard. You saw the beginnings of it tonight. Six days' worth of grief falling down round your shoulders, all at once." A tiny smile played about his lips. "Trust a Gryffindor to do something stupid without thinking it through first."

"You don't get to play at House rivalry, you came from off." The attempt at banter was poor, but it was there. Tobias gave an acquiescing nod.

"Fair enough." He looked piercingly at Neville. "I've seen Harry in charge of something before, when he comes to give guest Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons. I've glimpsed the person he is. I think you're in good hands...if you let him know what you need." Neville still looked dubious. "It's either sooner or later, Neville. And it'll be worse later."

Neville looked down at his hands. "How long did you take it? Before..."

Tobias's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "Shrewd, aren't you?" The grin faded as his eyes seemed to turn inward. "Too long. I...was sure her pain was worse than mine. Just like you, I figured I had to be the something she could hold onto, that I had to do it alone." He swallowed. "It was my dad who told me what I'm telling you."

"And gave you the pretty little line about archways?"

"Came up with that myself, actually."

"It's good," Neville said grudgingly. "Catchy. Mostly true."

"Mostly? It's all true." Tobias looked slightly affronted.

"Mostly." Neville stood up. "Archways fall around a keystone. The rest of the arch can't bear weight without it, but the keystone does almost no work at all."

"Well aren't you the fount of knowledge." Tobias jammed his hands into the pockets of his robe. "And who's the keystone in this extended metaphor?"

Neville stared into the flames of the fireplace, hand twitching toward the box of Floo powder in its niche in the wall. He glanced upward, toward their bedroom. "I think James will be coming home from his visit with his grandparents tomorrow."

"He looks so much like her," Harry said in a dull voice, as he and Neville stood over the cot where James lay sleeping. It was early yet, but it had been an exhausting day for him, and while he might still be a bit young to appreciate the nuances of the sensation, Neville was certain that he understood how good it feels to fall asleep in one's own bed.

"I imagine he'll hear that a lot," he said. He tapped the headboard of the cot with his wand; the cot shuddered very slightly and then settled. They'd be able to hear anywhere in the house if he started crying. It felt like it had been so much longer than a week since he had last performed that charm. "There's soup in the kitchen."

"I'm not—"

"Hungry. I know. Come eat anyway. James needs you to keep your strength up." He took a deep breath. "And I need you too."

Harry glanced sidelong at Neville, slightly surprised by the admission. They were not words Neville said often. At any rate, he allowed himself to be pulled by the wrist downstairs into the kitchen.

Of all the foods it was difficult to pretend to eat, soup was the worst. You couldn't spread it around to hide that you hadn't touched it, and you had to actually eat it to put a dent in it. Harry suspected that this was why Neville insisted on making him soup. He reluctantly spooned a tiny amount of broth into his mouth, trying to ignore the way his stomach roiled. Like it or not, Neville was right—he did have to eat.

So focused was he on getting each tiny spoonful down without gagging that he did not pay any attention to Neville sitting across from him until it slowly dawned on him that Neville was not eating, had not even picked up his spoon. Harry lifted his eyes, a tiny echo of indignation flaring in his middle.

"Oi, if I have to choke this down you do...too..." Neville's eyes had not been that bloodshot and hollow a few minutes ago.

"I haven't been entirely open with you, Harry," Neville said heavily. "I've...been going through grief suppressing potions like water since...since the funeral. I've been trying to keep going for you, trying to be there because I know you need me...but they've been getting less effective. About this time yesterday was my last one and I know it's just about done working its way through my system, I'm going to start falling apart any second now and...I'm sorry, I know that you need me, but..."

Harry stared in numb disbelief as Neville dissembled in front of him, continuing to ramble but becoming less and less coherent. Since the funeral? But...that had been a week ago. Disregarding all the other numerous side effects, that meant...

"Good god, Neville," he said, the implications slamming into place in his brain, forcing him into a wakefulness he hadn't felt for days. Soup forgotten, he sprung from his chair, around the table and clasped Neville to him, head held tightly against his chest, and Neville's arms flew around to cling to him, his hands making fists in the back of Harry's shirt. He was taking deep, shaky breaths now, gulping gasps that Harry recognized to be the precursor to sobs, but weren't quite yet.

"Shhh," he said pointlessly, stroking Neville's hair, casting about for what to do. This was all backwards. Neville didn't fall apart, he always had that control and resolve like cast iron, always weathering whatever storm had been thrown at them without a single complaint...and yet here he was, holding onto Harry as though he were drowning, slowly collapsing like a shattered window. At a loss, Harry found himself repeating the phrases Neville had been murmuring endlessly to him over the past several days. "I'm here...it's okay. I'm here, you're not alone..."

"I just can't do it anymore, I'm sorry, I tried..."

"I know. It's okay. I've got you." Harry slowly pulled Neville up out of the chair. "The kitchen's a terrible place for this. Come on, upstairs." He half-supported, half-hauled Neville up the stairs as he dragged his feet, still mumbling semi coherent apologies and pleas for Harry to understand. Harry tried as hard as he could to silence the small voice in the back of his head yammering about how inconvenient this all was, how dare Neville choose this time to fall apart, how could Neville do this to him when he needed him.

Neville's always been there, he chided himself as he cast about the room for a blanket; though it was the middle of July, there was something immensely comforting about having a blanket drawn about you. He's always been strong for me. It's my turn to take care of him.

Harry didn't know how long he'd sat on the couch with Neville curled up and with his head and shoulders in Harry's lap, while he gently stroked Neville's arm and murmured whatever comforting thing he could think of as his husband shook violently with sobs that, even in his intense grief, he wouldn't let out. His pain was almost tangible; Harry knew that the potions didn't dull it, merely put it off, and this was several days of pain all accumulated into one heavy ball of grief. Harry ached with it himself, his own grief resonating in a minor key with Neville's, and yet it wasn't the dark tunnel he'd spent the last several days lost in. Several times Harry curled over Neville and clung to him tightly, his own tears squeezing from eyes clenched tightly shut, as though if he could get their sore and broken hearts close enough to each other they would heal and become whole.

And still, Harry could feel Neville holding himself back. He'd hold his breath, or tense every muscle in his body. He'd stop talking and take deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Finally, after Harry felt Neville's back tense so hard it spasmed, Harry grasped Neville's shoulder and turned him so he was on his back, his bleary eyes looking up into Harry's.

"Nev." Harry didn't shorten Neville's name often. It wasn't a nickname so much as an indication that Harry was feeling particularly intensely toward him; he did not use it lightly. "You've been holding on for me for so long. You can let go. I'll keep you from falling."

For a long moment it seemed as though Neville hadn't heard him. Then Neville gave a great shudder.

"Do you know how hard that is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. "Giving up like that?"

"No," Harry said honestly, tucking a stray lock of Neville's hair behind his ear. "But it's not giving up. There's nothing to fight here." He swallowed. "Mourning her isn't giving up. I promise."

Despite his expression of absolute misery, Neville still looked stricken. "That's not—no, that isn't what I meant, at all. It's—it's Ginny dying, and James being taken from us, and you falling away from me just like when we were younger and I couldn't do anything, it all feels like it's happening all at once and I just can't—"

"I know," Harry said, trying to choke down the note of despair that was clamoring in his throat. "I know. But those sound like reasons for you to let it out, not keep it inside." He offered a very bleak and wavering smile. "Dammit, Neville—just cry already, will you?"

That did it. The single, abrupt laugh that bubbled up in surprise was enough like the sobs that so desperately needed to escape that the sobs came with it, and now Neville had buried his face in Harry's midsection, shoulders heaving with every one. Harry held him tightly, feeling vastly inadequate for this task. And yet, he was the only one who could do it. In laughter and in tears, in conflict and tranquility. He could still hear the words he'd promised, feel them resonate in his bones. He'd been a lousy husband this last week, abandoning Neville to launch himself into his own downward spiral that might never have ended had this not happened. He was determined to make some of that up now.

"I love you," Harry whispered, giving Neville a squeeze. He wasn't sure Neville could hear him. "Things will get better now. I'm here. We'll get through this."

James very seriously considered the pile of mashed potatoes in front of him before attempting to grasp it firmly with both pudgy hands. The results of this experiment were much as one would expect, and after several moments included one very messy baby, one very potatoey high chair, and two very amused parents.

"Every time," Neville said, at the ready with a damp cloth. "I think you do it on purpose now."

"Oh, don't clean him up yet," Harry said. "He's just going to get messy again. Wait until we're done with dinner."

It was just slightly chilly in the kitchen; the windows high up in the wall at ground level were opaque with frost on the outside and condensation from the warmer room on the inside. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, but was doing a poor job of chasing the winter from the kitchen.

"Oh, I got an owl from Tobias," Neville said after he'd wiped the worst of the potatoes from his son's face. "He'll be coming, his mother-in-law decided not to have a Christmas Eve party after all."

Harry nodded. "Hermione's offered to cook. As though that's a surprise."

Neville smirked. "Are you letting her?"

"You know her. If we don't let her be the best at something it's the end of the world. Besides, I just don't think it would be Christmas Eve dinner without Hermione anxiously asking if the ham's all right." Harry paused, a tiny expression of pain flaring in his eyes before he quashed it. "Besides, it was Ginny who didn't like anyone else using the kitchen."

Neville nodded somberly and reached out to take Harry's hand. Harry smiled sadly and squeezed it.

"We'll make happy memories here again," Neville said earnestly. "And our friends will help us. And James."

James looked up at the sound of his name, grinning widely as he tossed a bit of carrot to the floor. Neville rolled his eyes and ignored it for the time being, which Harry surmised must have caused him considerable pain.

"I know," he said. He forced a smile, and it somehow made him feel better. "Nursery's going to be full to bursting, with Little Molly and Dominique and Rose and Hugo coming. No wonder Mrs. Weasley was so willing to let us host this year. And George is bringing Angelina."

"Didn't see that one coming," Neville said thoughtfully.

"I think that's the point of eloping," Harry pointed out. "Dating a girl for a year in secret and then marrying her is exactly the sort of thing I'd expect from George." He smirked. "Maybe he'll stop pinching my bum every chance he gets now."

"I wouldn't count on it," Neville said wryly. He took a long sip of water. "We did kind of rope ourselves into a giant family, didn't we?" he observed after a moment's reflection. Neither of them felt like mentioning that though they had always been a part of the extended Weasley family, James and Ginny had solidified their positions as family instead of just dear friends.

"Well, it's what you and I always wanted, isn't it?" Harry asked as he toyed with his fork. "To be a family."

A small, crooked smile touched Neville's lips. "I suppose so." He put down his glass. "Things are turning out okay," he said suddenly, eyes locking with Harry's. "Aren't they?"

Harry looked around the kitchen, which the fire was just starting to make warm. His eyes lingered on Ginny's empty chair at the small round kitchen table, where she had sat for so many breakfasts and dinners, where she had been when he first felt his son kicking, a small spot of many in this house that she had claimed as her own and still felt empty.

But the house was clean and bright, spare bedrooms prepared and awaiting holiday guests with crisp linens that still smelled of the lavender Ginny had folded into them when she had placed them in storage the year before. A Christmas tree stood in the drawing room awaiting decoration. The copper pots and pans in the kitchen gleamed, the good china waited patiently for the feast it would serve in a few days' time. The living room—which was now more of a library and study than ever—was full to bursting with Neville's books and research journals and tomes, Harry's cheap paperbacks relegated to their own small bookcase in a corner by his chair, Ginny's romance novels and diaries given a prominent shelf of their own next to the window. And James cooed at the kitchen table, watching peas bounce as he very carefully dropped them to the floor one by one.

"Not everything is okay yet," Harry admitted. "But enough of it is."