The next several days rushed by in odd dollops of time that refused to obey any clock that Draco was familiar with. He quailed at the thought of visiting Astoria and facing the certainty that everything was on the cusp of changing forever, and yet the indolence of lounging about his flat nearly drove him mad. This morning, no matter how many times he laid out on his sofa with a book, his attention began to wander. It wasn't until he'd read the same paragraph four times over that he tossed the book to the side, brought himself to his feet, and stretched. So far he'd discarded three books and a Daily Prophet, and it wasn't yet noon.

He was lonely.

Well, that was inconvenient.

He Apparated to the shop and filled a basket with a week's worth of food, paying as much attention as he possibly could to each item in a valiant attempt to ignore the melancholy. He knew it made little difference as to what kind of clover the bees frequented, but the label on the jar of honey engrossed him for well over five minutes. All told, the shopping occupied him for a good hour, but then he was right back in his empty flat with a week's worth of meticulously selected food.

He turned on the Wireless. The default station was playing some light baroque piece that immediately set his teeth on edge. He jabbed his wand in that general direction and the Wireless fell silent.

He didn't even have anything to clean. Astoria had sent a house-elf to take care of that while he'd been gone. He'd have felt better if there had been a thin layer of dust over everything. He'd have ignored it, but he'd have known that there was something he could fall back on.

There was a half-finished letter to his father at the writing desk. Draco settled into the chair, dipped the quill, and wrote a single sentence before he realised that this was below nonexistent dusting on the list of things he wanted to spend his time doing.

By half five that evening, Draco had showered twice, discarded two more books, napped, shaved, and picked out a bottle of wine.

The last shower and the bottle of wine had been in resignation to what he knew he truly wanted to do, and by a quarter of six, he'd Apparated to the pavement in front of Neville's building.

He got one step inside the lobby before his vision was filled with grey. It startled him probably more than he wanted to admit; he nearly dropped the bottle of wine and he only just avoided making an indelicate sound of surprise.

"Good evening," he managed to say, and if he didn't sound composed at least he didn't sound out of sorts. Not that it probably mattered to Clay. "I'm here to see Neville Longbottom, in 3C."

The golem held out one massive hand. Draco stared at it for a moment before timidly placing the bottle of wine in it. The golem's hand glowed blue, the bottle chimed oddly, and then the golem nodded. Draco took back the bottle of wine. Obviously he'd gotten a seal of approval, and he made to go up the staircase.

And then the golem was in his path. It wasn't a matter of moving quickly; one moment the golem had not been there and then it was. This time Draco did exclaim something profane, jumping back and nearly bowling into someone behind him.

"It won't let you past unless you have a key or an invitation," the wizard he'd nearly flattened said, apparently unperturbed. He strode past quickly and began climbing the stairs. The golem didn't pay him so much as a glance.

"Okay," Draco said, holding up his hands. "I'll... just stay here." He backed away slowly and sat on a chair that was presumably there for this purpose. The golem watched him, its eyes the only things moving in that impassive face, and once Draco made it apparent he wasn't going to attempt to get by again it ponderously made its way to its stool, where it seated itself facing Draco.

"So that's how it's going to be. All right then." Draco folded his hands in his lap and stared right back.

A clock ticked. Somewhere upstairs, a couple was having an argument about pans. Draco began to feel more than slightly foolish, but he didn't tear his eyes away.

"What the devil are you doing?"

Draco jumped, head whipping around to see Neville leaning against the banister of the stairs, a nonplussed expression on his face. Draco had not seen him come down.

"I'm, er... I was waiting for you."

"Obviously. Though when I got the message I had a visitor, I wasn't expecting you." Neville descended the last few steps and Draco rose from the chair, shooting a glance at Clay.

"I wasn't expecting to be here, either," he admitted after a pregnant pause.

"So why are you?" Neville challenged.

Draco scratched the back of his neck, unreasonably at a loss for words. "I... I missed your fat head."

Neville raised a single amused eyebrow. "You've had a week of nothing to do but sit around and come up with insults, and that's the best you can do for me?"

Draco shifted his feet. "I used up all the really clever ones on myself."

The amused eyebrow turned into a considering one. "That's the closest you're going to come to an apology, isn't it?" Neville asked in a somewhat defeated tone.

Draco tipped his chin up defiantly. "I didn't do anything to apologise for."

The flash of anger was undeniable. Over on his stool, Clay shifted. Neville held up a quelling hand and the golem stilled.

"No. You're right. You didn't, really." Neville shrugged suddenly and jerked his head in the direction of the stairs. "Come on then. You remember the way."

"Would you like a sippy cup for your grape juice?" Neville's voice sounded from the kitchen.

Christ, Neville knew how to get Draco's hackles up. "This 'grape juice' is older than you are," he retorted, stepping around the dividing wall. Neville was reaching to the top of a cabinet, bringing down two very dusty wineglasses. Draco decided not to point out that they were entirely the wrong kind of wineglass for this wine.

"I'll warn you, I've never met a wine I liked." The two glasses were wiped perfunctorily with a cloth and placed on the table in front of Draco. Neville gestured. "I'll let you do the honours."

"You've probably never met a wine you liked because you were drinking bad wine." Draco tapped the neck of the bottle with his wand, and the cork jumped out. He caught it deftly with one hand. "I get the distinct feeling that you cut your teeth on whiskey."

Neville bowed his head in agreement. "At some point, one of my ancestors owned a distillery. It's a part of the estate now." He chuckled. "Funny you say I cut my teeth on it - it's exactly what Gran would rub on my gums when I was teething, or so she told me."

"Yes, we pure-bloods seem to solve all of our problems with fine alcohol," Draco quipped as he waved his wand discreetly over the wineglasses. Not discreetly enough; he caught Neville's scowl. "Did you honestly think I would drink from a dirty glass? For shame."

"I cleaned it." The protest was half-hearted, and sounded more like an attempt to be contradictory than true irritation. Draco agreed with the sentiment; it seemed remarkably as though there was something in the air that made their words fall flat, something that had taken the edge out of their...

He might as well admit it to himself. Their friendship. Perhaps it was too strong a word, especially with the ineffable tension that wound about them in tiny threads, but there was really no other term for it. There was something in the air, in the room, in the light - something that forced an artificial distance between them that their well-worn banter could not diffuse.

Draco poured the wine. As he had said earlier, fine alcohol tended to solve most problems. If nothing else, it would make this one more bearable.

He watched with an amused eye as Neville swished the burgundy liquid around in his glass. Neville caught him watching and smiled sheepishly. "I know this is what you do with wine because I saw someone else doing it," he said. "I told you, I'm a wine idiot." The tiniest bit of colour crept into his cheeks as he looked down at his glass. "I'll probably do this all wrong and waste your good wine."

It did not seem like the best time to tell him that this wasn't even the good wine. "There's no wrong way to enjoy wine," Draco said instead, bringing the glass to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Just bad ways. And I knew you'd be too thick to appreciate it, anyway, so I brought an easy one." He smirked at the dubious look on the other man's face. "Oh, just drink it. The bottle's open now, so if you don't help me finish it then you've wasted it anyway."

Still dubious, Neville brought the glass to his lips and took a sip. "Oh." He took another, more enthusiastic sip. "Oh."

"What did I tell you?" Really, Draco reflected, you'd have to be dead to not enjoy this wine.

"I'll make a point of listening to you more often. At least about wine." The glass sparkled in the lamplight as Neville held it up to admire the colour of the wine within.

Silence settled upon them again, holding within it that same intangible something that made being together not as easy as it had once been.

"Astoria's pregnant," Draco blurted, before the silence could get comfortable and overstay its welcome.

Neville's eyebrows flew up in surprise. "Really?" The surprise turned to a look of confusion. "Do... do I congratulate you, or help you find torches and pitchforks?"

It was a moment before Draco understood the question. He barked a laugh. "No," he said, taking another sip of wine, "it's mine. The Malfoy name will continue at least another generation. My parents will be thrilled beyond reckoning when they hear the news."

Neville nodded slowly. "Gran tried to set me up with a similar arrangement," he admitted. "Several times. But I was stubborn, and..." he trailed off, and the colour in his cheeks grew more pronounced.

"Distracted," Draco offered.

"For lack of a better word." The look in his eyes grew distant. Draco stayed quiet; in this case, silence seemed the best poultice to draw out what Neville needed to say. Besides, he wasn't sure he knew how to put the strange apprehension he felt into words.

Finally, Neville sighed heavily and finished the last swallow of wine in his glass. "It's hard." Draco wordlessly poured him another glass and topped off his own. Neville ignored it and stood up, apparently needing to pace. "I used to be able to look at him sometimes, and know what he was thinking. Know that, for just a moment, he'd been thinking about me. Not that we'd ever do anything about it. But it was this..."

"Delicious tension," Draco said, rising from the table as well. "There's a line there, and you know that inevitably, one of you will cross it once the tension gets to be too much. So you revel in that tension." He handed Neville his abandoned wineglass.

Neville took it, the expression of astonishment plain on his face. "That's it exactly." He shook his head, as though coming back to himself. "But it's gone now. Thing of the past. Even if he could work his way around to... to thinking like that about me again..." He stared into his wineglass. "It's all for the best," he said suddenly, and took a long sip of the wine. "I was doing nothing but making a giant mess of his life. He's married now, and he's not going to remember how I nearly ruined that. I'll get over it in time."

Resting on his elbows as he leaned back against the counter, Draco gave Neville a long, appraising look. "You are a terrible liar."

Neville stared. "I'm sorry?"

The empty wineglass made a quiet clink as Draco set it down on the counter behind him. "I don't believe a single word of what you've said. I don't think you do either. 'It's for the best' is what everyone mutters to themselves when there's a situation they don't like and are too scared to do anything about."

The speed at which Neville's eyes went flinty was staggering. "I'm not scared. I just don't think anything good would come of trying to change things."

"Trying to fix things, you mean," Draco corrected. He could feel a flush at the back of his neck; on an empty stomach, the wine was going to his head particularly quickly. "You know how you want things to be. And you know how to make it so things are the way they were before, or at least damn close." He stepped closer to Neville and poked him hard in the sternum. "You just feel guilty that you want to be happy at someone else's expense."

In a steady, deliberate motion, Neville grabbed Draco's wrist and began twisting. With a small cry, Draco went up on his tiptoes in a vain attempt to take some of the pressure off.

"I don't like being touched," Neville said in a flat tone before letting go.

Draco rubbed at his wrist, scowling. "You don't, do you?" And then, because his mind was fogging up outrageously and pain had always made him belligerent, "Bet you'd let Potter touch you."

A lesser and more sober man would have cringed at the expression this wrought. Draco didn't so much as flinch as Neville set his jaw, eyes narrowing.

"Are you jealous?"

The question, demanding in its intensity, made every vitriolic word Draco had mustered evaporate. He blinked. "What?"

In the pretence of putting his wineglass on the table, Neville stepped closer. "Are you jealous of him?" This time the question was softer, but no less intense. Draco found it impossible to tear his eyes away.

"I've been jealous of Potter for going on thirteen years," he said, surprised at the honesty of the statement. "No reason to stop now."

"That's not much of an answer." Standing this close, Draco could smell the whiskey Neville had apparently enjoyed earlier before Draco had arrived.

"And what kind of answer would you prefer?"

Neville did not reply. Not with words.

It was a moment before Draco realised what had happened, and by then Neville had roughly grabbed his chin, tipped it upwards, and planted his mouth firmly against Draco's. He made a small, undignified sound of surprise, which cause his lips to part just slightly. Neville pushed his advantage, thrusting his tongue into Draco's mouth greedily.

It took every ounce of willpower Draco had to push sharply against Neville's shoulders and break away. They stood, barely a foot apart, staring at each other in utter disbelief.

"Thought you didn't like people touching you," Draco ventured after far too long.

"No." Neville sounded confused, and his brows knitted together to match the tone. "I was touching you." He turned his back to Draco as though to peruse the wineglass again, but Draco knew better. He reached out, grasped Neville by one shoulder, and spun him round, meeting his lips once they faced each other again.

Draco could feel every muscle in Neville's back tighten, then unstiffen by small measures as Draco did nothing but lightly brush his lips against the other man's, tongue lapping out gently as though to taste. After an age of slow and languorous reassurance, Neville's hands crept to the back of Draco's neck and the small of his back, and the kiss began to give way to an astonishing ardour with a swiftness that set Draco's head to spinning. Having secured his position, Draco let his fingers trail up along the other man's jawline, running lightly over the rough stubble. Neville made an approving noise and his hand pressed more firmly into Draco's back, drawing him closer.

Interesting. Apparently Neville was of Draco's school of thought, and agreed that using teeth was entirely appropriate during a kiss of this heat. He'd not have expected that. Draco nipped at Neville's lower lip in response, drawing his teeth along it before letting go and gliding his tongue along Neville's again, suddenly unable to get enough. He was dimly aware that he'd shifted slightly to straddle Neville's thigh and was slowly grinding himself against it, the friction setting his nerves afire. Perhaps that was why he gasped when Neville curved his fingers in his hair, sending goosebumps down his spine and drawing a shiver from deep within him.

The gasp had broken the kiss and Draco stepped away. The expression on Neville's face was something between confused and mortified. Draco licked his lips, which felt slightly raw - he could taste the iron tinge of blood just barely drawn.

The silence pulsed between Draco's quickened heartbeats. He raked a hand through his hair to brush it out of his eyes.

"I... should probably go."

Neville just stood there, blinking at him. Draco began to get the feeling he'd done something very stupid.

"So. Er. Good night, I suppose." He began to back slowly out of the kitchen. He couldn't think of anything else to say, and Neville certainly didn't look like he was going to be able to contribute any words within a reasonable time frame. And when it came down to it, if Draco stayed in that kitchen much longer, he was likely to do something else very stupid.

He hadn't gone three steps before Neville lunged forward, hands going to Draco's shoulders and pinning him against the only blank wall of the tiny kitchen, hips pressing against Draco's own in an absolutely maddening way. Neville's mouth pressed against Draco's so roughly that the stubble stung against his cheek, and the visceral need that pulsed between them was impossible to ignore.

"I'm not Potter," Draco managed to force out as Neville took a break from his mouth to do delicious things to his earlobe.

Neville pulled away just enough to match eyes with him. "I'm not either," he said, his eyes shrewd. "He's shorter, you see, and he has darker hair and glasses."

"You know what I mean." The irritation in his voice fought with the huskiness of arousal. "Not five minutes ago you were mooning over him."

"And then you gave me something else to think about." Neville had absolutely no right to the expression on his face right now. It was downright predatory. Downright... Slytherin.

"I'm not Potter," Draco repeated stupidly. He felt oddly as though he'd completely lost control of the situation.

"I know." The other man seemed to come back to reality for a moment. "And you'll never be him." He traced Draco's jawline with a finger, and somehow Draco knew his delicate pointed jaw was being compared to Potter's squared one. "In fact, you're the exact opposite, in every possible way." He leaned forward and Draco shivered again as Neville breathed against his ear. "Maybe that's exactly what I need."

Ignoring his body's cries of Traitor!, Draco gently pushed Neville away. "It's a terrible idea," he said shakily. God, even just his shoulders felt incredible.

Neville closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. "Yes. You're right. Bad idea." He took another step back.

They stood there in the kitchen, the moment slowly slipping away like a raindrop down a windowpane. Despite the disappointment thrumming through his veins, Draco found he could breathe slightly more easily.

Wordlessly, Neville walked over to the sink and turned the tap. He began to splash cold water on his face with trembling hands. Draco backed out of the kitchen, leaving Neville occupied to that task, thinking he might use the tap in the bathroom upstairs for the same purpose. It didn't seem a terrible idea.

Footsteps on the stairs made Draco freeze, water splashing into his palms and into the basin. He wiped his hand on a towel and stepped to the door.

Neville stood at the head of the staircase, his expression utterly unreadable. Draco raised an eyebrow, feeling a stray drop of water trickle down his neck into his collar.

"I've never knowingly given in to a bad idea before." There was that expression again, and it was merging with Neville's voice in such a way that it made Draco's knees go weak. "And I am so sick of doing what I'm supposed to. Of doing what I'm told." He didn't even seem to move before he was pressed against Draco again, nudging him backwards towards the bed. "I want to make a bad decision for once, and know that it's a terrible idea, and be stupid enough to do it anyway."

"It is a terrible idea," Draco protested weakly as Neville found the spot on his neck that seemed to turn every muscle in his body to jelly. He only just held back a moan and then the backs of his knees bumped against the bed and he was going over backwards.

Knees on either side, Neville made it perfectly clear that he was the one with the control, that he was the one who would be dictating this particular encounter. A thrill of excitement rushed through Draco at the thought - he'd been with a great many men who tried and failed to do what Neville was doing effortlessly.

He needed to make one thing perfectly clear, however, before things became too heated for either of them to think. He cleared his throat. "I don't bottom."

"That's a shame, because I don't either," Neville hummed against his neck.

Draco tensed. "I mean it. I'm sure your cocksmanship is amazing, but I don't bottom."

"You mean it."

The ardent and passionate atmosphere had dissipated entirely, and Draco would not have been more shocked had snow begun to fall in the bedroom. Draco stared in disbelief as Neville stood, looking down at Draco on the bed, his hair dishevelled and his chest rising and falling with laboured breath.

"You think I don't mean it?" There was an edge of something - hysteria? - to Neville's voice, and Draco opened his mouth uselessly, unable to find any words to fill it. "You think I'm being coy?"

"No - I -"

"Do you have any idea what it takes to get me here?"

And then Neville was gone. Draco pushed himself up to sitting, listening to the footfalls as Neville retreated down the stairs to the living room. Draco's mind reeled as he tried to reconcile the last thirty seconds.

Something had gone horribly wrong, and he had no idea what he'd done.

Draco slipped silently into the chair across from Neville at the table. Neville was chewing the inside of his lip, obviously either deep in thought or trying to stop thinking.

"Most blokes, it's a preference not to bottom," Draco ventured after the silence had begun to grate upon him. "Seems more like a holy writ with you." He very carefully did not phrase it as a question, to leave Neville the option of not answering. Just an idle observation, to be responded to or not.

It was looking like not. Neville's face was clouded, his brows furrowed, the expression on his face a very clear "KEEP OUT" sign. Draco nodded and rose from his chair without another sound.

"You remember the Carrows?"

Neville's voice seemed very loud, and its sudden tenor made Draco nearly jump. He turned from the doorway, leaning against it casually. "Yeah?"

Neville looked to be fighting with himself, his shoulders hunched as he brought his arms up to cross them in front of him on the table, a posture so reminiscent of his school days that Draco blinked, startled. Neville stayed frozen like that for a few moments, then licked his lips. "They liked punishment, the Carrows did. Amycus in particular."

It slammed into place like an immense iron gate crashing shut. Draco felt the blood rush from his face and feed the sudden cold terror in his belly. "Oh god," he said. He took two strides forward and had reached out to - to do something, rub his shoulder, he didn't know - and his hand met the glossy nothingness of a shield. His entire arm from the elbow down went numb and he snapped it back, rubbing it.

For his part, Neville looked as though he wasn't even aware he had thrown up a shield at all. He probably didn't even realize he had. He was looking at the table - through the table, into the table, as though the wood was all that existed - and his eyes had darkened into thunderheads. "Mostly the girls. But I kept him from - from who I could. Most days it was worth the price."

Draco stood uselessly, rubbing the muscles of his forearm, at a loss for any sort of comforting words. "Neville," he said finally, and it was laughably inadequate. "I can't... you still...?"

Neville wrenched his eyes away from the tabletop and threw his gaze at Draco, who gulped to see that anger and pain directed at him in full force. "Of course 'I still,'" he spat derisively. "What was I supposed to do, let him think he'd won? Let him keep hurting those... those children?" Draco's mouth gaped open, and Neville returned to his study of the wood grain. "People ask me all the time why I'm an Auror. I've got plenty of answers that sound fantastic, about bravery and justice and doing what's right." He swallowed, looking faintly ill and obviously ignoring it. "It's all rubbish. I'm an Auror because of that sick and twisted son of a bitch, and everyone like him, and I'm going to lock each and every one up in a cell so dark that midnight has to ask directions."

A sick realization was twisting its way through Draco's stomach, sinuously curling just beneath his heart, making it suddenly hurt to breathe. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the image of the slowly turning handle of a Vanishing Cabinet floating in front of his vision. "God, Neville, I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," Neville mumbled.

"Yes it is," Draco insisted, nausea fluttering at the back of his throat, making him taste metal. "I let them in. I started the whole chain of events, if it weren't for me Dumbledore -"

"Would have died a few weeks later, probably still by Snape's hand, and everything would have gone just the same way," Neville interrupted savagely. Draco shook his head miserably and opened his mouth. "SHUT UP, MALFOY!" Neville bellowed, rising from his chair and grasping Draco by the upper arms. Draco went rigidly still in what could really only be terror.

"Don't you dare try to take any of the blame that belongs to that worthless fuck," Neville's voice was seething like the water in a cauldron just before it begins to boil. "You've atoned for the crimes you committed out of ignorance. Don't for one instant think you're responsible for anything that happened to me. That's between me and Amycus, and for what he did, he's rotting in Azkaban and if I have my way - and I will, because I know his fucking arresting officer - he will never see daylight again."

"Language, Longbottom. I have a delicate disposition." The words had just kind of escaped from the part of his brain that did nothing but pen clever responses, and as he heard himself deliver them he felt his blood freeze. It was possible that in the history of the world, there had been a worse time to be a smartass, but the chance was slim to none.

Miraculously, though, the line between Neville's brows smoothed just a touch, and then he barked out a confused, sickly-sounding laugh as he let go of Draco's upper arms. Draco was about to breathe a great sigh of relief but that was thwarted by Neville's sudden crushing embrace squeezing the air from his lungs in a giant whoosh as he buried his head in Draco's shoulder and began to sob.

This, Draco knew how to handle. He awkwardly lowered the both of them to the kitchen floor, finally situating them with Neville's head in the crossed legs of his lap, stroking Neville's hair softly.

Harry had done the same thing for him on his disastrous wedding night. It was the sort of thing decent blokes who had a thing for each other did.

"We are so fucked," Draco said to nobody.

"Language, Malfoy," Neville said thickly. Draco laughed mirthlessly and shook his head, not surprised to find tears of his own pricking at the corners of his eyes.