Disclaimer: I don't own anything…at all.
Neville trotted happily as he whistled down the hall. He really couldn't get over how crafty he was being. He cut off the tune on high C and grinned. "Bloody brilliant."
Harry just wasn't as receptive to him after that Daphne girl had spoiled the huge "secret" that he hadn't even known about in the first place, and Neville had to correct that. Before that, things were perfect. He was sure that it wasn't too late for everything to go back as it was.
Ginny had told him about Harry's doubts that Neville had written the notes, after she herself had heard them from Ron. She said that Harry was sure that Neville should still be his boyfriend but that he was uncertain about him telling the truth on that matter.
Neville had chuckled nervously and assured Ginny that he had indeed written the notes to Harry. "I've been interested in Harry for years. I know some poems by heart. Who else could it be?"
She had nodded and smiled back, clearly accepting the answer. Neville just hoped that she would pass the information onto her brother, which would eventually get back to Harry.
He just needed to reassure him.
Which was why he was planning on penning a poem for him.
"All you have to do is write him another note!" Daphne exclaimed excitedly, and out of the blue, that evening. Blaise raised an eyebrow but didn't look up from his poetry book.
"What would that accomplish?" he drawled. "He'd probably figure that it was just Longbottom writing him one again. And we don't want dear old Neville to reap any more of my benefits."
"The choice in poems would be all different if Longbottom wrote the notes," Daphne scoffed. "He's a bleeding heart; he'd go sappy and crappy. You, however," she looked pointedly at her friend, "are a bit more thoughtful and methodical."
"It's night and day, really," she finished.
"If Harry were to scrutinize the choices of the poems, that would prove him far more adept than I gave him credit for," Blaise remarked coldly.
"Oh, ouch," Daphne said in surprise. Blaise usually had nothing but kind words to say about his crush, and this side of him was disheartening.
"It's true," he slammed his book shut.
"What happened to 'I don't want Harry to get hurt' or 'I'm Blaise-Couldn't-Hurt-a-Fly-Zabini and I can't snatch Harry away from Longbottom because that wouldn't be very nice'?" Daphne inquired.
"That's a shit attitude that's only kept by losers," he reasoned quietly.
"Maybe," Daphne supposed, "Or maybe not. Maybe it's a shit attitude that's kept by winners."
"Right," Blaise scoffed.
"You don't see people that hurt other people get very successful, do you? Well, other than Death-Eaters. And many prominent Ministry members…but anyway, no you don't. They end up in Azkaban. That is not very successful."
"Bollocks," he replied. "My mother has killed off all of her husbands. She's yet to see a day in Azkaban and is rich as sin. That is shit reasoning."
Daphne sighed. "The good guy doesn't always finish last, Blaise-y," she ended before getting up and leaving him alone.
Blaise thumbed through his book to get back to his page, which he had unfortunately lost in his rage.
"It sure seems like it, Daph."
"Write him a poem," Daphne commanded the next morning.
"Why should I even bother?" Blaise asked, tightening his tie around his neck.
"Because I told you to, Blaise," Daphne said harshly, "I'm not going to let you throw something you love so dearly away that easily, even if you're hell bent on ruining the rest of your life."
"You can't make me do something I don't want to do."
"I can," Daphne repeated.
"And I will."
Blaise clenched his jaw and closed his eyes.
"It can't hurt to try," Daphne rationed softly.
He buttoned up his shirt and shrugged on his robes.
"Fine," Blaise accepted.
Daphne handed him a self-inking pen and piece of parchment. "Write," she instructed.
He sat on the edge of his bed and did just that.
Neville dipped his quill in the inkwell and stroked the sharpened end to the parchment.
He smiled.
"Perfect," he whispered.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
I cannot live with you,
It would be life,
And life is over there
Behind the shelf
The sexton keeps the key to,
Putting up
Our life, his porcelain,
Like a cup
Discarded of the housewife,
Quaint or broken;
A newer Sevres pleases,
Old ones crack.
I could not die with you,
For one must wait
To shut the other's gaze down,--
You could not.
And I, could I stand by
And see you freeze,
Without my right of frost,
Death's privilege?
Nor could I rise with you,
Because your face
Would put out Jesus'.
That new grace
Glow plain and foreign
On my homesick eye,
Except that you, than he
Shone closer by.
They'd judge us--how?
For you served Heaven, you know
Or sought to;
I could not,
Because you saturated sight,
And I had no more eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise.
And were you lost, I would be,
Though my name
Rang loudest
On the heavenly fame.
And were you saved,
And I condemned to be
Where you were not,
That self were hell to me.
So we must keep apart,
You there, I here,
With just the door ajar
That oceans are,
And prayer,
And that pale sustenance,
Despair!
Harry eyes were alight when he read the first note. "Oh Nev," he whispered happily, "How could I ever have doubted you?"
The note had been dropped down by one of the school's owls at breakfast, where he had been sitting with Ron and Hermione.
"Is that another one Harry?" Hermione asked, excited. Neville had told her that he was going to give him another one, and she couldn't wait to see the note herself.
"So it appears," he answered, unfolding the poem again.
He received the next poem when he was alone, as he was exiting the Gryffindor common room. It had been placed in the middle of the corridor outside of the Fat Lady's portrait. It was clear that it had been put there only moments before, as no one else had stumbled upon it.
He picked it up curiously, thinking that it was yet another note from Neville.
His eyes teared up as he read the paper, mouth opening slightly.
He turned around and fled back into the common room. Now completely in tears, he gasped, "Is this your way of breaking up with me?"
Neville looked horrified and surprised at the same time.
"What?"
"This…this..." Harry held out the note for Neville, and the other boy took it tentatively, acting as if he expected it to blow up or give him warts.
"I-I…" Neville trailed off as he read the poem. "I didn't write this, Harry."
"Who else could have written me this?" he asked angrily, "I mean, you're the only one who's ever written me any poems."
When he saw the uncertain look on Neville's face, he faltered. "Right…?" Harry inquired.
"Well…I meant to talk to you about that…" Neville's face flushed and his voice dropped low into a whisper.
"What?" Harry's surprisingly cool tone took Neville completely by surprise. The harsh clip of the T cut off all other movement and sound in the room, and everyone's focus was now on the couple by the doorway.
"I, erm," he flushed even more as people began to stare, "I might not have written you all of those notes…"
"How many?" Harry asked hoarsely.
"How many what?"
"How many notes did you write," Harry repeated.
"Well…to be honest…" the next part was garbled and jumbled so that Harry didn't catch what he said.
"Excuse me," his tone went even colder.
"Only the last one," he whispered.
Harry's eyebrows to his hairline. He didn't utter another word before beginning to march up to his dormitory.
Neville followed.
"Harry, listen to me, please," he begged quietly, not wanting to raise more of a scene, "I didn't want you to break up with me because I didn't write the notes at first. We had everything going so well…I just didn't want to chance it…"
Harry reached the door. He turned around quickly and replied, "You chanced our relationship when you lied to me, Neville." He went through the doorway and shut the door on Neville.
First poem's by E.E. Cummings, the second by Emily Dickenson.
I was going to hold out until I got more reviews, but this chapter completely flowed out of me.
So consider this a gift. ^^