A/N: I kind of got sidetracked with another story idea. Sorry for the delay! I hope the update makes the wait sort of worth it? Thanks for your time- and feedback, for all those who reviewed. I greatly appreciate your encouragement. :) Edit: Rewrote the second half of the chapter entirely. Hope it's better!

Sneaking around Hogwarts with a High Inquisitor nipping at your heels every step of the way was not recommended, but it had totally been worth it that night.

Stupid grin still in place and school uniform askew, Harry Potter ran a hand through dark hair that looked messier than usual and watched as the Fat Lady's portrait swung open. Ignoring the look of complete disapproval on the plump face of the portrait's subject, he poked his head inside the threshold and carefully examined his surroundings.

The flames of the fireplace had grown dim, casting long shadows over the large furniture ahead. It was the perfect ambience for studying for an upcoming test or finishing up a particularly grueling essay without interruptions. Not so much for pussyfooting his way up to the boy's sleeping quarters unnoticed. Harry pushed the large glasses that had been inching down across the bridge of his nose back to their original position and squinted. The common room looked positively deserted. He'd been a bit concerned about being spotted while on his way to bed, but his worry had apparently been for naught. He cautiously lifted one foot over the bottom of the portrait and was about to do the same with the other when something stirred in the shadows.

"Where were you?"

His foot caught on the edge of the frame and nearly sent him headfirst into one of the plush sofas scattered about the room. "Uh…"

"Ron's already upstairs." Hermione. Relief washed through his system as he searched for the owner of the disembodied voice. "He wanted to wait for you but then he started nodding off."

"Err, yeah. Sorry about that." His best friend had- almost suspiciously- selected a couch in the darkest corner of the common room. The pale moonlight that streamed through the window beside her seat barely managed to illuminate the table in front of the windowsill. "I'll just head up, then."

"Where were you, Harry?" He'd been about to turn away when she asked again. Her voice was firmer, a touch more demanding this time. "It's two in the morning."

"Three." As soon as the words escaped his mouth, Harry winced. Antagonizing Hermione by correcting her was not a wise move. Not unless he was eager to play 'Rita Skeeter and unwilling victim of one of her interviews' with his friend, and he was not in the mood for an hour-long interrogation session. "I…um…just saw it on a clock on my way here."

"Okay." Like a specter from a muggle horror movie, Hermione's hand slowly apparated from the shadows to set her quill on the inkpot atop the table. Resigned, Harry turned back to her and moved closer. "It's three in the morning. What were you doing, Harry?"

"I, uh…" He'd been on his back atop a pile of comfortable cushions with his incredibly beautiful, incredibly naked girlfriend astride him. "I was walking."

"Walking." The word was drawn out, the tone flat. Harry suddenly felt as he had while on trial just months before. One wrong word and he'd be getting a lengthy and undoubtedly embarrassing lecture about intimacy from his equally embarrassed friend. "Why?"

Why? He hadn't really thought the excuse through. Now that he did, Harry realized how incredibly dimwitted it had been. With Draco and his cavemen trolling the halls on Umbridge's behalf, it would be stupid of him to not take his invisibility cloak while out and about at night. "I needed some time alone to think."

"You needed six hours to think?" The fireplace suddenly came alive with a flick of her wand. Hermione sat on the lonely couch in the corner, a ridiculously long sheet of parchment drooping from the arm of her chair to its clawed feet. A curled-up Crookshanks purred happily from her lap. "Couldn't you have done that here? Or upstairs, in the boy's dorm room?"

"With Ron complaining about school, his non-existent love life and everything in-between?" Happy about moving away from the half-truths he'd been stammering out, Harry dropped on the couch in front of her and scoffed. "Not bloody likely."

"I suppose that makes sense." She reached back for her quill, paused to scratch idly at the bridge of her nose with her finger and smiled as her cat's head snapped up to stare at the feather. "You should go to bed, Harry."

"I will." He stood up and ran his hands across his hair and the front of his shirt, hoping she hadn't previously noticed how disheveled his clothing had been before his actions. "Goodnight, Hermione."

"Harry…" Something in her voice made his stomach clench. A stab of panic bubbled in his chest, and he bit his tongue in case another bleak excuse found its way to his mouth. "Ah, never mind. Sleep well."

"Err...yeah. You too."

He might be in trouble.

Neville walked the length of his personal office, wholly oblivious to the smattering of items in the room that typically brought him comfort. The gleaming Remembrall by the lone window in the room, a gift from his grandmother after losing his first one. The leather sofa he'd frequented as a student that McGonagall had generously brought down from the common room when he'd accept the job at the castle. Even the picture of his smiling parents that hung above the fireplace mantel, the faces within the frame as familiar as his own…

With a deep breath, Neville lifted his quivering hands and pressed his fingers to his eyes. The work-roughened pads sank deep, and the ocular migraine that had stirred him from his sleep was momentarily stifled. It was a temporary cure to his problem, much like the mechanical pacing that he'd been doing after stumbling out of his chair. With a few comforting pats to his face and another sigh, he shifted his gaze to the world outside his window.

The sun had not yet fully settled into the sky. He could make out a bright expanse with patches of translucent clouds beyond the grimy glass of the window. A cursory glance at the clock behind the desk revealed it to be ten. Inwardly, he groaned. It was much too early for him to show up for lunch, and far too late to join the rest of the castle staff for breakfast. With his stomach demanding all but a sacrifice, he turned to eye the glass decanter resting on the chair by the fireplace with longing.

"Oh, Merlin's balls." He said under his breath, fingers itching to reach for the bottle. "Why do you always drag me into situations like these, Harry?"

While he found the thought of walking over to the container extremely seductive, he knew that drinking would potentially jeopardize his mission. If his coworkers caught a whiff of the stiff beverage on him after he finally made his way down to The Great Hall, they would head on over to McGonagall with the news. He couldn't risk exposure. Not when he carried in his pocket something that might potentially get him sacked. Unfortunately for the young Herbology Professor, the option of knocking back what was left of his Firewhisky was not on the table that morning.

"It's not that hard to keep it inside your pants." He grumbled irritably as he turned on his heels and resumed his pacing. "You could've just not finished in her."

In truth, Neville knew that his anger was misdirected. Harry Potter's weak pull-out game was not what had him on edge that morning, but the fact that he'd promised his wife that he'd be free of his drinking habit by the end of the year. Neville had unhurriedly been emptying the stash he kept inside his office throughout the year. The Firewhisky decanter had been the only remaining survivor of his purge. He'd even considered gifting it-just to be done with the process already- but his plans had been cut short the moment Harry's letter had arrived. Now he simply used the potent liquor to quell the onset of shakes that randomly struck him.

It incensed him to feel so helplessly out of control. It had taken nearly three years to hold some semblance of sway over the drinking, and to fall off the rails so easily stung a little. Neville had thought himself stronger than that. He'd been taking steps to change his bad habits, to become the husband he knew his wife deserved. He should've been that man by December. If that letter had never arrived…if he'd just been smart enough to decline Harry's request, maybe things would've been different. Maybe he'd be over at the Cauldron right now, trying his best to convince his wife to join him upstairs instead of drowning the nervous tremors that racked him. And he lamented his vacuous loyalty.

That didn't mean Neville felt no sympathy for his friend. Harry had gotten himself into quite the predicament. He truly hoped that the man would find peace after the issue was resolved. But Neville was aware that he was far too old to be caught up in things that had nothing to do with him. His own demons left him more than drained enough at the end of the day. To tangle with someone else's would postpone his own issues, but exacerbate them as well. The smart thing to do, the courageous thing to do, would've been to politely explain why he couldn't help and hope for the best. Harry worked for the Ministry now. Surely his friend was astute enough to realize that demanding anything from the Headmistress would result in a severe scolding from the Minister or worse….right?

He released a snort of disbelief. "Right."

Harry Potter was more than capable of blowing the doors to the castle wide open, striding inside like a preening rooster and demanding the list. The man had the irksome habit of acting impetuously when pressed. Neville had no doubt that Harry had been quietly steaming, fighting the desperate need to take matters into his own hands while Neville searched for evidence. It wasn't stupidity that drove Harry. The man was simply passionate about everything he did. Harry had always done what he felt was right, and if he felt pushed to go to Headmistress herself for the identity of the child who'd penned the letter, Harry Potter would do just that.

A sliver of remorse swept up his spine at the thought of being involved in such a scandalous situation, but Harry's unfortunate fondness for trouble had convinced Neville to provide him with some support during his endeavor. If not for the lauded Boy-Who-Lived, then for his clueless wife. Ginny had always been warm and kind to Neville. They weren't very close- Neville was much too guarded for that to happen- but she had done her best to make him feel accepted. The thought of her being hurt by her husband's mistakes was not pleasant to the fair-haired Gryffindor. And if he could not completely shield her from the suffering that would follow, Neville could at least postpone it by aiding Harry.

He briefly wondered why he was so preoccupied with someone else's wife when his was just as likely to be wounded by the secrecy. His fingers speared through the sweat-soaked hair on his head and gripped at the closely-cropped strands. "Merlin, Hannah's going to kill me."

If the woman he'd married found out about his folly, she'd probably hand him over to Filch and have him strung up by his unmentionables. The war had left her husband with more than his share of deep-rooted problems, but Hannah had always been gentle and understanding. He wasn't so sure she'd be half as understanding if he ever confessed that he'd known about Harrys love child before news broke out. Neville's actions meant that he'd made a conscious decision to risk his job and their life together just because Harry had scratched an itch with an ex-girlfriend. Even the most understanding of wives might have a hard time wrapping their head around that faulty logic.

Honestly, he'd rather dive into a pit of starving Dementors than face her. Hannah would probably dump all his belongings outside of the Cauldron and permanently ban him from their home. He deserved it, too. What kind of husband risked his livelihood on a dodgy request from a man who'd become more acquaintance than friend through the years? His help might make him a good ally, but it also marked him as a poor spouse. Last he'd checked, it was Hannah who had made life after loss bearable, who warmed his bed at night and filled his soul with happiness, not Harry Potter. And how was he repaying her? With poorly conceived lies.

It just that…well, Harry never asked for help unless he absolutely needed it. With Ron and Hermione being out of the question for reasons that Neville wholly understood, Harry had been left with no choice but to reach out to him. Harry deserved the blame for this mess, he really did, but the man was falling apart. Criminals he could deal with, but approaching the possible mother of his child and their offspring required a little more finesse. Finesse that Harry very well knew he did not possess. And The-Boy-Who-Lived had looked an absolute mess when they had met at the Cauldron that first time…

Neville shook his head and swallowed the knot at his throat. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to keep lying to his wife. He was going to have to stick to the excuse he'd produced about having met Harry at The Cauldron by happenchance. He would later find a way to make it up to Hannah. Until then, Neville would keep informing Harry of where and when he could send his letters. It would minimize the chance of having his wife find out about their problem. He would also need a steady supply of alcohol to keep his nerves from swaying while he was doing it. After he finished the job, he'd make everything better again. He just had to do his part and do it swiftly.

So maybe he wasn't in trouble.

Maybe, he thought as he bit on what was left of his nail after a night of anxiously biting them, maybe they wouldn't notice that the picture was gone. A fresh wave of stress coursed through him, and he nearly suffered from a coronary when a loud growl echoed in the room. Sheepishly, he realized that the sound had come from the depths of his stomach. He'd accidently skipped breakfast and was well on his way to skipping lunch. The Firewhisky he'd sipped on the previous night meant that he craved something fatty to settle his squirming insides, and since the rest of his colleagues were unaware of his little nighttime escapades, Neville considered chancing a trip to the kitchens.

The series of hallways discreetly hidden from view by unassuming bookshelves, tapestries and portraits across the castle mean that he could very well make his way down unnoticed. He would often drop by the kitchen to chat up the elves and to satisfy his cravings at night. The bright, hard-working kitchen staff would be more than happy to fetch him something before lunch. He could nab a sandwich and return to his quarters without anyone ever realizing it. Yeah, a stack of half-a-dozen sandwiches sounded delightful. He was on his way to the door when a horrible thought struck him. What if he ran into McGonagall?

The insidious question had him shuffling in the direction of the leather chair by the fireplaced and collapsing into it. He had barely scraped by when Hannah had asked him about his unusual meeting with Harry. He had only survived the counter because his wife was trusting and he had always been honest with her about his problems. But his old Head of House was a different beast to tackle. Those intense eyes of hers could see through anyone. Neville had always been a bit nervous around her. If she thoroughly questioned him, he had no doubt that he'd blurt something unfortunate out and give away the whole thing.

Damnit all, he wasn't good at this spying thing. Neville had surprised himself by working well under pressure during the final year of the war, but that was only because he'd had a medley of close friends and acquaintances backing him up as they waited for Harry to return. The results of this mission rested squarely on his shoulders, and they were already sagging under the weight of the burden. He exhaled shakily and dragged a hand across the underside of his jaw before dragging his eyes to the scrap of parchment spread over the small table by his seat.

Neville,

I don't know what to do. I've half a mind to send a letter and see what happens, but what if it turns out to be a horrible mistake and word of our relationship somehow gets out? It would ruin our lives. How am I going to explain to the wife that I've just spent a month obsessed with my ex-girlfriend because I thought I might've gotten her pregnant? I don't want her to think I'm having an affair or that I regret our marriage. I think she's starting to get suspicious, though.

Have you managed to find evidence of...well, anything? I haven't heard from you since we met last Friday and I'm beginning to feel restless. Again, I'm sorry for pressuring you. I know this can't be easy for you to do. But if you could just find something, anything, it would help immensely.

Anyways, lunch break is over and I need to get back to work. Please, please let me know if you find anything, Neville. I'll be in my office until eight. If you manage to get something before then, feel free to drop by so we can discuss it. Ask for me at the desk and they should let you in without a problem. Again, thank you for your help, old friend.

Best of luck,

-H

This last letter had arrived just as Neville had been making his way down to greenhouse. His budding Mandragoras needed steady supervision, and he had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he hadn't seen Harry's new owl swoop in until it had dropped the letter on his head and flown away with a smug hoot. A bit unamused with the creature, he'd flipped the envelope open and swiftly scanned the contents of the letter. As much as Neville wanted to take credit for the idea that had begun to flicker inside his skull like a lightbulb, he knew that the sudden interruption was to blame for jolting him out of his harried state of mind…and into a new, more productive one.

Neville had been so focused on all the things he had to do by himself that he hadn't realized he'd had an unlikely ally within the castle walls. The Head of the Ravenclaw house had always harbored a soft spot when it came to him. After a clumsy start, Herbology had always been where Neville had excelled while at school. He hadn't been an exemplary student in Charms, but his unrepentant tenacity as he tried to keep up with his classmates had endeared him to the pint-sized professor. It hadn't been difficult for him to ask his old teacher to guide him through a tour of the tower. Flitwick never questioned his motives, simply chalking them up to curiosity. Neville Longbottom, after all, had always been harmless.

The tour of the Ravenclaw's nest had been completely overshadowed by the fact that Neville had been searching the room for something. He couldn't remember half of what Flitwick had told him about his beloved house and even less of what had surrounded them as they walked through the rooms. Still, Neville did feel a little guilty about lying to his old professor just to gain access to the password he had later used to sneak into the room. He would've never been able to solve the riddle on his own, though. And the Professor would probably understand why he'd done what he'd done, right? Because doing something a little wrong to do a lot of good was a noble cause, right?

"Sure..." Neville grimaced, crumpled the letter up and tossed it in the direction of the fireplace. "I should be sanctified."

He watched as the parchment was quickly consumed by the fire until it was little more than a pile of glowing embers at the bottom of the stone floor. Burning the letter was a simple precaution. Neville had not outgrown his habit of forgetting things. His offspring would've probably inherited it, as well. Merlin knew he'd suffered enough ridicule because of it. Passing it on to a poor child was not something he wanted. He still despised his unfocused nature, but admitted it had also made him warier. Ridding himself of Harry's letters after he read them guaranteed they would not be misplaced, and that his friend's woes would not be discovered by someone whose intentions were less than noble than his.

At this point, it was better to be safe than sorry. If word ever got out that he was helping the absent father of one of his students gather intel on his child, he'd be booted before he could blink. Delivering information to anyone but their legal guardians was illegal. While the rules said nothing about showing pictures of them to old friends, he was sure that the parents would have a few choice words for him for doing it. McGonagall would probably throttle him. He'd stolen two pictures from the Ravenclaws, and that the second one he'd snatched from inside their common room. Playing with fire was much to tame of a phrase for what he'd done.

Neville sagged deeper into the comforts of his chair and considered the acquisition. The stupid decision to nab a picture from the student board in the tower was one he hoped would ultimately pay off. It wasn't like the image had 'Harry Potter's bastard kids' in glowing print scribbled at the back, but at least their faces were visible this time around. Their eyes were unfortunately hidden behind the large, tinted goggled that were now mandatory for all players during quidditch games, but the faces in the image were cleanly displayed. He just wished he could remember what Cho Chang looked like.

He had no doubt that Harry would know her, however. While tales of his bravery had been greatly exaggerated and he'd been embarrassed by them more than once, Harry Potter was still one of the bravest men Neville had ever met. Which made the gentle awkwardness of his infatuation with the pretty Ravenclaw seeker amusing. His green eyes had been glued to her since their match during his third year, and he'd spent three years hopelessly smitten with her. Neville had always found Harry's sudden lack of interest in her after the Edgecombe incident a smidge puzzling. Yes, her friend was ratted the DA while under duress from Umbridge, but the pretty Asian wasn't to blame for that.

With Harry's own questionable choices in friends, it was a bit ironic that he'd decided to cut ties with her over something that could be easily excused and forgiven. Marietta's mother had been threatened, and Umbridge had proven that she was not above torturing people to obtain what she wanted. Anyone in the DA could've been forced into exposing the group, Neville included. To blame someone for protecting a person they loved when the threat of death was very real was ridiculous. And now that he knew Harry had done more than just snog Chang, he couldn't help but to feel sorry for the girl. Harry had always been a tad inconsiderate, but dumping his girlfriend after sleeping with her struck Neville as cruel.

"No wonder the bastard is all torn up about it." He stuck his middle and index finger inside the pocket of his robes and plucked the picture out, pausing midway to properly unfurl it. "Poor girl."

Years of teaching and a brain that had not always been reliable meant that he could not recognize most of the faces in the picture. The children that gathered in the greenhouse changed constantly, and they came in waves. Unlike Hermione Granger, most students refused to make themselves stand out in the crowd. The Ravenclaws had always been particularly submissive during lectures. Neville brushed a thumb across each face and squinted, trying in vain to make their names materialize. To his dismay, he only recognized Wentworth, and only because the boy had made a habit out of staying behind his group so he could fall asleep outside the greenhouse while the lesson took place. He concluded that the other kids were punctual, polite and nearly invisible to him.

Neville rolled up the photo and deposited it back inside the safety of his pocket. It was up to Harry to decide if one of the kids resembled him enough to make the proper inquires to their mother. If everything went smoothly, Neville would deliver the letter to his friend at the Ministry of Magic, where Harry would make a copy of the image as he had done the first time, and then Neville would have the picture back in the Ravenclaw tower before Flitwick realized it was gone. There would be no harm done. All Neville had to do was set the time and place for their meeting and his end of the bargain would be completed. The uplifting thought was enough to brighten Neville's surly disposition.

"Mr. Longbottom?" McGonagall's prim voice echoed in the hallway beyond his door. "I need to speak with you."

"Oh…" The curse that followed the word died in his throat. His clothes were a wrinkled, stained mess and he reeked of spilled alcohol. Neville hastily cleared the smudges with his wands and ran his fingers thought his hair as he tried to put the errant strands back in their place. "I'm coming, Professor." He dashed across the room, took a deep breath and smiled as he opened the door. "Is something the matter?"

Her eyes, so unnervingly intense behind her spectacles, regarded him for a few seconds. Much to his relief, her lips quirked at the ends. "Are you planning on visiting your wife today?"

"Yes." The answer came out without thinking, and he hoped he didn't look half as guilty as he felt. But, Merlin, she wasn't there about the bloody picture. His relief was so great it surprised him he hadn't melted into a puddle at her feet. "I overslept. I was about to fetch my hat before heading out."

"Good." From the wide sleeve of her robes came a small envelope. She extended her hand in his direction and he took the letter without pause. "I would appreciate it if you could gather a few things at Flourish and Blotts for me."

"Of course, Ma'am." He dropped the letter in his pocket and made a note of being careful when he removed it at the book store. The last thing he needed was for the picture to fall out while he was running unplanned errands for his employer. He hadn't counted on leaving the castle that day, but did he really have a choice now? "I'll make sure to bring your items back with me when I return."

"Good." She stepped aside and gestured for him to join her. Neville plucked his hat from the peg at the back of the door and joined her. As he shut the door behind him, he realized that the impromptu trip might not be a bad thing. He could take a moment to visit Harry at the Ministry before picking up McGonagall's things. "I hope you enjoy your afternoon, Mr. Longbottom."

He didn't know what to say to that. Usually when he visited Hannah…he somehow managed to stop the embarrassed heat at his neck from spreading to his face. "I'll see you later, Professor."

"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom." Relieved, he squeezed his eyes shut and tilted his head back with a sigh. "Oh, and Neville?"

"Er…" She usually only used his first name when she scolded him. He smiled nervously as she glanced over her shoulder and returned the gesture. "Yes?"

Thin eyebrows arched high on her weathered brow. "Do finish that bottle of Firewhisky, but I fully expect your office to be free of alcohol by the start of the new semester."

His ears sizzled all the way to Diagon Alley.

A/N: An update at last! I have to admit that the next chapter will be...interesting to write. Thanks again to my friends for helping me rant about my ideas until one of them sticks. You guys rock! :D