Chapter Text
THREE YEARS BEFORE OUR STORY BEGINS…
Nothing good had ever come from wandering around a castle at night...and yet, Harry found himself doing just that, time and time again.
He crept through the dark, twisting warren of hallways, wrapped in his Cloak of invisibility, his movements as quiet as a whisper. Step by step, heartbeat by heartbeat, he searched for a means of escape.
He knew the exit was here somewhere. He also knew it was probably bewitched so that it would be nigh-impossible to find.
He spread his hands across the cold, stone wall before him. Closed his eyes. Breathing deeply, he reached out with his senses (How many years had it been since he’d seen Dumbledore sense magic in this same way in that accursed cave? Four? Ten?) and searched for any thread of enchantment that would give him the smallest hint of safety.
Entrapment, the magic called; it was woven into the stone and could not lie. Confusion, misdirection, change.
“Shit,” he whispered, grinding his teeth. That could only mean that the labyrinthian halls of the castle were morphing around him. He would never find the exit wandering around like this.
He paused for a moment, thinking. Finally, he retraced his steps back through the winding corridors, removing the hood of his Cloak and blinking back into visibility.
He made his way into a large ballroom; a hundreds-large menagerie of sparkling fey nobles tittered and fanned themselves as he entered. They wore furs and shimmering silks, all artfully arranged to reveal much more than they hid, with bright jewels and chains crowning their most intimate parts. Next to their finery, Harry looked practically feral - his clothes ragged, his chest bare and cheeks gaunt, his skin scarred and dirty.
At the center of the ballroom, a handsome, blue-haired figure lounged across a large golden throne. He wore a long white coat, high-necked and regal; underneath, he was naked, save for a golden net of chains that fell seductively across his thighs.
He grinned lazily, showing pointed teeth.
“Back so soon?” the king called. “You weren’t even gone an hour. The hunt won’t begin for a while yet, you know - you still have time to escape.”
His court broke into raucous laughter.
Harry ignored them. He focused on a thin thread of magic - the barest whisper - the barest hint of a spell that was calling to him from one of the king’s golden rings.
“Go on, then,” the king said dismissively as the laughter died down. “Go cower somewhere else, mortal. It’s no fun if there’s no chase, and we haven’t had a good hunt in such a long time.”
“You lied,” Harry said quietly.
The court stilled, like a many-winged butterfly pausing on a flower.
“Pardon?” The king wore an incredulous frown.
“There’s no exit, is there?” Harry continued, narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. “You’ve sealed the whole castle. The only way out is there on your finger.”
The king rubbed his ring, eyebrow raised. “Interesting. The little mortal has some hidden talents. Well, that does ruin the fun, doesn’t it? Looks like we’ll just have to kill you now.”
He waved a hand towards some waiting guards. They began to rush forward, their strange glass armor clanking as they moved.
“Wait!” Harry said desperately. “Wait. Please.”
The king raised a hand and the guards paused.
“Please don’t do this,” Harry begged. “You can just let me go. We can pretend this didn’t happen. I’ll leave and I’ll never come back.”
The king let out a bark of laughter. “Now why would I do that?”
“Please. I don’t want to kill you.”
The court laughed at this, goblets falling and plates crashing in their mirth; all save the king, who looked at Harry strangely.
“You’re an odd mortal,” he said finally. “Were it a different age, I would let you live a bit longer. I’m very curious about you. But it has been too long since this court has tasted human flesh.”
He smiled widely, saliva falling from his long teeth. In an instant, the rest of the court looked much the same; feral, hungry, dangerous. The guards began to inch forward once again.
Harry’s eye twitched.
He raised the Elder wand and slashed it towards the far left wall - a thick field of exquisitely sharp, ten-foot-long bone spikes exploded into being, thrusting themselves out from the wall and towards the center of the room. But even the longest spike was far from the closest courtier.
A few heartbeats passed.
“An interesting choice,” the king drawled, bemused. “I am further intrigued. And yet, as I mentioned earlier -”
He froze as he turned back towards the wizard before him.
A smoking black rune hung in the air in front of Harry’s left hand. His fingers were pressed against the circular network of crisscrossing lines; his expression was pure fury, the greens of his irises glowing.
The king blanched.
“Wait -”
“Too late,” Harry snarled.
He twisted the rune counter clockwise.
Gravity shifted; the whole room turned; the bone spike wall was now the floor.
The courtiers wailed as they fell, grabbing at curtains and lighting fixtures - despite their efforts, they slammed into the spikes, a drumline of crunching and splatting amidst the great symphony of screams. Furniture crashed as it dashed towards the fray, ricocheting against bodies both falling and fallen; the lights flickered and dimmed, and then went out.
The dark was thick and hot and tortured and loud. The lucky ones had fallen first and were spread thinly along the base of the spikes. In some places, the bodies had piled high enough to render the spikes almost lethal - these pseudo-survivors wailed and clawed at one another as they tried to lift themselves off whatever jagged bone impaled them, slipping in blood and gore as they lurched about.
Harry walked along the now-wall, hand still connected to the smoking rune. He followed the musty carpet until the king lay at his feet.
The king’s legs were hideously broken, and yet, miraculously, he had not quite been thrust upon the spikes; he struggled fruitlessly upon a writhing bed of bodies and broken furniture.
Shrieking, he flinched away as Harry approached.
“Please!” the king screamed. “Please, I’ll do anything! Please!”
“Give me the ring,” Harry said quietly.
“Take it! Take it!” the king sputtered, blood frothing on his lips. He raised a shaking, mangled hand forward.
Harry reached out and pulled the golden ring from a backwards-bent finger. He looked at it for a moment and nodded. This had the right magic, he could tell. It would open up an exit anywhere he chose.
He blinked slowly, ears ringing. A voice yammered on in the back of his mind - not again not again why don’t they listen oh god why don’t they ever listen - he shoved it down and grit his teeth.
He could fall apart later.
“- didn’t know you were a necromancer! I’ll give you anything! Please, save me! PLEASE!” The king’s continuous begging barely registered in Harry’s mind.
“Why should I show you mercy?” Harry whispered, but the king couldn’t hear him. “Why save you? So you can heal, and get angry, and send someone to bring me back once you’ve prepared yourselves better? I’ve seen all of this bullshit before. No. You had your chance. I’m sorry.”
He turned away and walked back towards the center of the room. After a moment, he rotated the rune again and the world righted itself.
A mighty wail sounded as a mass of people fell sideways onto the ground, drowning in a sea of gore. Out of hundreds of fey courtiers, a few dozen survivors struggled free from the debris.
“Thank you,” the king sobbed, pulling himself forward on the blood-soaked carpet. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”
The green glow of Harry’s eyes dimmed until they were fully black, the darkness covering even the whites of his eyes. He reached into the shadowed part of his soul - a festering, rot-slick soul - and felt for his most powerful magic. He closed his eyes and spoke quietly.
A deep, low bell rang, undulating and terrible.
The dead began to rise.
Hungry, angry, they dragged themselves from the bone spikes and set upon the survivors. Skin tore, muscles burst, screams shattered into silence.
Harry stared into nothing, jaw twitching, eyes unfocused. He turned on his heel.
And he walked away.
***
JUST OUTSIDE LONDON, 2003 (THE PRESENT)
The suburb awoke at dawn. Windows lit up in kitchens and bedrooms, the bright light muffled against the dampening haze of a quiet morning. Within moments, early risers took to the streets, swinging briefcases and backpacks, marching to the tune of their own private routines.
Perched on an abandoned rooftop, Harry felt a familiar pang of jealousy as he watched these strangers walking about disguise-free and rounding street corners without checking for attackers. Anonymity was a precious thing. He wondered if they took it for granted.
No point in dwelling on it, Harry decided. Abandoning the thought, he sighed peacefully and settled more deeply into the sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders. Steam from his small mug of instant coffee curled languidly around his face; he breathed in, enjoying the rich aroma.
“CAW!”
Harry jumped, sloshing hot coffee onto his lap and cursing. He pursed his lips and whipped his head around to face his traveling companion.
“Damn it, you scared me, Corvo,” he scowled, glasses askew.
A massive crow bobbed towards him, ruffling its feathers and stretching its wings. Harry covered his cup with his hand as the bird hopped lazily onto the ground next to him; with a wingspan of almost six feet, the smallest flap of Corvo’s wings could send debris floating through the air.
And directly into my coffee, Harry grumbled to himself.
Corvo tilted his head and chirped, staring accusingly at Harry.
Harry stared back, fighting a smile. “Can I help you?”
The large bird shrieked and darted forward, gently nipping Harry’s arm.
“Alright, you win,” he laughed, reaching into his cloak. He pulled out a tin of shelled, unsalted peanuts and peeled the lid off, placing it on the ground next to him with a flourish. “Breakfast is served, your highness.”
Corvo jumped to the ground and did a hopping dance around his prize, cawing gleefully.
“Yeah, yeah. Enjoy, you terror,” Harry grinned. “Remember our deal. Play nicely with the owls and you can have all the peanuts you want.”
Corvo ignored him, completing his rotation around the tin and digging into his breakfast with relish.
Harry smiled at his bird friend’s antics and settled back again to gaze at the suburb before him.
It was strange to be back.
He’d been dreaming of this moment for five years; he’d struggled, bled, and suffered to get back home. He was a different person than the one who’d left, that was for sure. The countless terrible things he’d done to survive weighed heavily on his soul…
Don’t think about that, he told himself. That’s all behind you now. You’re back. Don’t think about it.
He mentally froze, holding his breath until those memories were stuffed deep into his subconscious where they belonged.
His eye twitched.
Where was he?
Oh yes, he’d been thinking about coming home. About reuniting his friends.
He hadn’t seen them in ages. Would they be happy he'd come home? Or would they be angry at his unexplained absence?
“I hope this goes well,” he sighed. “Finish your peanuts, Corvo. Let’s head to the Burrow.”
****
“Neville! You’re late!”
Neville rubbed his weary eyes, groaning. “Hermione, I’ve just sat down, can I at least pretend to get some work done before you bother me?”
Hermione flapped her hands anxiously as she rolled her chair towards him, colliding against Neville’s desk with a thump. He sighed as a cup of pencils tipped over. “Really, can’t we just -”
“Shh!” she whispered, glancing around with a paranoid expression. They shared a large workspace with a dozen other researchers in an open-concept office; it was a great layout for collaboration but a terrible layout for secrets. Hermione raised her wand and cast a discreet Muffliato.
Neville’s anxiety spiked. “Why so dramatic? What’s going on?”
“He’s back,” she breathed, dropping her wand into her lap and resuming her ridiculous flapping. “Molly got an owl - well, not an owl, apparently it was a bloody huge raven -”
“Who is back?” Neville interrupted.
“Harry!” she hissed. “Harry’s back, you idiot!”
Neville froze.
Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, had disappeared some five years previously, almost a year after the battle of Hogwarts. According to Hermione, Harry had never completely readjusted to wizarding society; directionless and floundering, he’d rejected job offers, apprentice acceptance letters, book deals, even the invitation to return to Hogwarts with Hermione.
Eventually, Ginny Weasley had broken up with him, and he’d become a complete recluse, refusing to leave his home at Grimmauld Place.
As a last ditch effort to help him find some kind of balance, Hermione and Ron had suggested he go camping and “get away for a while” in their old tent, hoping that the country air would help clear his head.
He must have liked “getting away”, because he never came back.
In the years that followed, they received sporadic updates by owl but had trouble sending messages in return - almost every time they sent an owl out, it would come back weeks later with the letter undelivered. It was as if he’d disappeared off the face of the earth.
“What do you mean, he’s back? Is he back back? Like, for good?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione moaned. “The note just said that he was in London and he wanted to pop by the Burrow to see everyone. Ron’s taken the day off, he’s rounding up the others and helping Molly get the house ready. I don’t think anyone’s going to want to miss the chance to see him so we’re expecting a big group.” She chewed on her lip pensively. “I’m probably going to go and help just as soon as I double-check the progress of my control patients.”
Neville nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do while you’re out.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “What do you mean ‘while you’re out’? You’re coming too! You’re not missing a chance to talk to Harry. Weren’t we just discussing how useful his experiences would be to your research? You know, since he’s the only person Crucio’d by Voldemort directly that still has some measure of his sanity?”
“I mean, I would love to see him, of course,” Neville sputtered. “I know I said - and he was - I could never intrude -”
“Why are you being a weirdo about this?” Hermione said, eyebrow raised. “You and Harry were really good friends back at school! Aren’t you excited to see him?”
“Yeah, definitely,” Neville lied.
Hermione peered at him suspiciously. “Anyway…” she finally continued. “We don’t know how long he’ll be around for, so you should try to do a few field tests while you have the chance.”
“I can’t today, I really can’t,” he protested weakly. “I’ve got about two hundred Dittany Provectus seedlings that absolutely must be repotted when the sun is highest in the sky.”
Hermione waved a hand dismissively. “Grab an intern and make them do it! You own the place, it’s not like they’re going to tell you to bugger off. I’ll bet Shae would be thrilled to help you. She’s working towards a Herbology Mastery, you know.”
Neville groaned. She was right, of course. “Shae may not even be available.”
Hermione stood decisively. “I’ll go and find out. You need a basic High Noon repotting on those seedlings, right? Nothing fancy?”
Neville sighed. “Nothing fancy. It should be obvious which seedlings are which, especially to a Herbology student.”
“Perfect,” she nodded. “I’m going to get Shae sorted and then check on my patients. Meet me in the Observatory in thirty minutes. Only Merlin knows when Harry will show up, and Molly will want to be ready.”
The silencing spell Hermione had cast popped out of existence as she marched past its boundary, her curly hair bobbing behind her.
Neville sighed in defeat and lay his head on his desk.
Even though he was the founder of Horizon Research and therefore technically Hermione’s boss, they certainly didn’t have an employer/employee relationship. He often found himself swept up in her schemes, railroaded by her single-minded determination to improve the lives of everyone around her.
She hasn’t changed a bit since school, he thought fondly.
Neville finally stood, resigning himself to his fate. It had been months since he’d delegated the day-to-day runnings of Horizon to a team of administrative staff, so he didn’t have any urgent paperwork. His research was admittedly in a very slow spot - it wouldn’t pick up again until he received approval from St. Mungo’s for the next round of patient trials, which would take at least another week.
May as well get some coffee, he thought, straightening his pencils and parchments back into their proper spots. He smoothed down his lavender scrubs, straightened the wide collar of his white lab robe, and wandered off towards the coffee bar.
Horizon Research was a large facility boasting dozens of lab spaces, open-concept offices, comfortable patient wards, three plush employee lounges, and a sprawling cafeteria/coffee shop lovingly dubbed the Observatory. It was a large, crescent-shaped room decked with high ceilings and low, modern furniture. Verdant plants curled down the walls, filling the air with the moist freshness of greenery and the buzz of enchanted hummingbirds. The longest edge of the room held massive, floor-to-ceiling glass walls; the view of downtown muggle London was spectacular, and Neville could spend hours watching the sky change colors behind the tall buildings.
He joined the long queue for the coffee bar, waving off well-meaning offers to skip the line. After twenty minutes, cappuccino in hand, he made his way to an unoccupied table and sat to wait.
So many things have changed, he thought, staring out the window at the ant-like lines of cars winding past their building. He wondered if Harry was the same person he’d been at Hogwarts so many years ago.
Neville himself certainly wasn’t the same - but thinking of their last meeting dredged up old, forgotten anxieties.
“I see you’re still carting that sword around,” Harry called.
Neville turned quickly, smiling. He saw Harry strolling down the badly-lit corridor towards him, jumping easily over a patch of rubble. It was mere days after the battle at Hogwarts and the hallways still bore the scars of a magical war.
“What, this old thing?” Neville grinned, raising the Sword of Gryffindor in his hand. “Why wouldn’t I? Don’t I look dashing?”
Harry rolled his eyes good-naturedly; he almost looked like his old self again, just for a moment.
Neville felt his heart squeeze painfully at the thought.
“Where’re you headed?” Harry asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. His hair was a wild mess, his glasses crooked over hollow eyes and dimpled cheeks.
Neville lowered the sword and shrugged.
“I was just wandering around,” he admitted. “I’m trying to think of a place to put the sword...I thought of putting it back in Dumbledore - I mean, McGonagall’s office, but it doesn’t quite feel right, since you said the fake was stored there for so long.”
“You’ll think of something,” Harry said easily, clapping him on the shoulder as they started walking together.
“What about you?” Neville asked.
“I’m just trying to look busy, you know?” Harry mumbled. “Get some space from...from everyone. Actually, if you’d like, I can help you find a place to put the sword. If you do end up keeping it, though, make sure you keep an eye out for goblins.”
Neville raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t ask,” Harry grimaced. “Anyway, what about the dungeons? There’s got to be an old armory in there somewhere.”
“Yeah...but the dungeons are...eugh,” Neville shuddered. “Shame about the Room of Requirement, though. That would have been the perfect place to put it, maybe buy some time to figure out a better spot.”
Harry’s expression tightened as he looked away.
“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry Harry,” Neville stuttered. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I heard about -”
“It’s fine,” Harry interrupted. He stopped walking and turned toward the wall, shrugging. “Somehow...with everything going on...I’d actually forgotten. Not that Crabbe died, of course, but that the Room of Requirement ‘died’ as well. It’s silly but it almost feels like losing a friend.”
They stood there for a moment, Harry facing the wall, Neville facing Harry, until Harry’s shoulders started shaking.
“Harry, are you crying?” Neville asked quietly, moving closer and resting the sword against the wall. He lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder and leaned in, concerned.
“Sorry,” Harry muttered miserably, shoulders hunched. He turned slightly towards Neville, not bothering to wipe his tears, but not quite managing to face him completely. “I can’t seem to keep it together these days.”
Neville watched as shining tears collected on Harry’s lashes and fell like ripe fruit, rolling down his cheeks and dashing to pieces against his patched, secondhand jumper. There was a rip along the neckline, exposing his collarbone; enchanted, Neville tracked the progress of a solitary tear braving the crest of Harry’s jaw and running smoothly into the hollow of his neck.
Neville meant to hug him. His sweet, loyal friend was hurting, and every instinct within Neville demanded that he reach out and provide comfort.
Instead, he dragged Harry forward by the small of his back and kissed him passionately.
That moment - the brief second when their lips touched - seemed to last a thousand surprised heartbeats.
Harry’s wild dark hair blocked out the light around them, and Neville felt as if he had entered into a secret, shadowed garden. He tasted the salt of Harry’s tears, felt the hard plane of their chests press together and the wiry strength in Harry’s arms as he dragged at Neville’s belt loops, pulling him in until there were no empty spaces left between them.
Harry pulled back abruptly, breaking their embrace with a swift jerk.
“Sorry - Neville - I can’t,” he breathed, eyes wide. “Ginny - I’m sorry -”
“No, I should be sorry, I’m an asshole,” moaned Neville, grabbing the sword from the wall and dashing down the hall.
His face burned with shame. He half expected Harry to call out after him, but he turned the corner in silence and marched deeper into the castle, desperate to escape his humiliation and the suffocating weight of his audacity -
Neville set his cappuccino down with a shaking hand and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and counting each breath. Once he reached one hundred, he relaxed his hands and felt about with his other senses, just like his mind healer had taught him years ago.
This table is cool to the touch, he told himself. The air is a comfortable temperature and smells like flowers, fresh bread, and coffee. I can hear people talking. I can hear forks and knives and dishes being moved around.
It was all an exercise in coming back to the present. The past was a painful place to dwell.
“I should probably go back to therapy,” he mumbled to himself, pushing the cappuccino far away from him. Caffeine was a bad idea for the time being.
“There you are,” Hermione called from across the room. She hurried towards him, the high collar of her lab robe flapping against her purple scrubs. “Just about ready? Ooh, is that a cappuccino? Do you not want it?”
“Be my guest,” Neville sighed, raising his eyebrows as Hermione chugged the drink in three gulps. She set the glass down with a slightly crazed expression.
“Thanks, I needed that,” she grimaced. “Come on, let’s head to the fireplaces. It’ll be easiest to Floo to the Burrow directly.”
“Hang on,” Neville frowned. “I need to bring something. I can’t show up to the Burrow empty handed.”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Fine, but you have to be quick! Do you need to run by the market?”
Neville sniffed, feigning insult. “You know I have enough fresh produce at my flat to feed a village. It’ll only take a moment.”
Hermione grumbled, but agreed, and within five minutes they were ducking under the mantle of his spacious apartments.
“I’ll just be a second,” he called behind him as he rushed through the parlor and towards his sunroom. “Pour us a glass of red, will you?”
“Brilliant idea,” Hermione agreed, throwing her purse onto the couch and making her way towards the kitchen.
Neville heard the clinking of glasses and uncorking of a bottle as he burst through a pair of glass doors into a tropical paradise.
The air was thick with the smell of wide, colorful flowers; in all corners of the room, brightly-colored fruit grew heavily on thick, green vines. He hurried over to a waist-high planter full of ripening honeydew melons and ran his hand over the largest one, breathing deeply.
Smells perfectly ripe, he thought with satisfaction.
He gently pulled it from the vine, pinched off a large handful of fresh mint leaves from a nearby herb tray, and rushed back into the kitchen.
He ignored Hermione’s impatient expression and dumped the melon onto a cutting board, flicking his wand and setting a nearby knife to trimming and chopping while he washed his hands. He then pushed the cubed melon into a bowl and began garnishing it. “Mint - salt - pepper - cashew cheese,” he muttered.
“Ugh, that looks amazing, I hate you,” Hermione grouched.
“You could sign up for a class or two if you want to learn to cook,” he said pointedly, grabbing his wine from the counter and taking an undignified gulp.
“No time! Too much science to do,” she answered breezily, knocking back the last of her drink. “Speaking of no time - hurry up! Drink your wine!”
“I’m trying!!” he choked through a mouthful of Cabernet.
The second his empty glass hit the counter they were off, running towards the fireplace and grabbing a handful of Floo powder.
“The Burrow,” Hermione said quickly, dragging him into the flames. Neville grimaced and held onto the bowl of salad tightly, fighting a wave of anxiety-induced nausea.
They arrived in the large hearth with a thump and rushed out of the fire, dodging a large cooking cauldron filled with a mysterious bubbling soup.
“Molly, we’re here!” Hermione called. “What can we do to help?”
No one answered.
The kitchen was suspiciously lifeless. Neville frowned, setting his salad on a nearby countertop. He’d come to expect some level of chaos when crossing this hearth; he’d never seen the Burrow this empty and quiet before.
“Merlin’s beard, Harry must be outside,” Hermione gasped suddenly, grabbing at his arm for support. “He must already be here. Oh my god. Come on!”
Neville followed her hasty footsteps out into the garden.
As predicted, the entirety of the Weasley clan were clustered in a circle, laughing and jostling one another. Every Weasley but Ginny is here, he noted automatically. And at the center of the circle -
At the center stood Harry Potter.
Time seemed to stop for a moment while they took him in.
In a way, he looked exactly as Neville remembered him - athletic build, striking green eyes, insanely messy black hair, and a rakish grin framed by deep dimples in his cheeks. He never stood completely still, consumed by a nervous energy that had him shifting from foot to foot, as if at any moment he would take flight and start chasing a snitch.
And yet, despite all of the consistencies, he still seemed so different. His skin was darkly tanned but paler around the edges of his broken watch, as if he’d been living outside for months. His clothing was rough - patched jeans, heavy boots, and a strange hooded windbreaker that had a metallic sheen to it. He wore a stiff, battered arm guard on his left arm with a matching shoulder pad above it; on his right, he wore a leather dueling gauntlet, the kind that you could invisibly spring-load your wand into. A small weathered rucksack was strapped to his back, thoroughly completing his vagabond look.
He looked...he looked wild and dangerous.
Good lord, he’s irresistible, Neville thought with dismay.
“Oh, Harry,” Hermione choked tearfully, barreling through the group and pulling him into a tight embrace. He squeezed her fiercely, pushing his face into her shoulder and rocking her back and forth.
Ron stood next to them, laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re back, mate,” he repeated over and over.
Arthur Weasley wandered over to Neville’s side and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s almost unbelievable, isn’t it?” he said unsteadily, eyes dangerously wet. “He’s changed so much!”
“He really has,” Neville mumbled, feeling slightly queasy. He resisted the urge to flee and instead mustered up a wan smile. “It’s good to see him home again.”
To his horror, Hermione began calling his name through the sea of red hair. “Neville! Come and say hi!”
“Go on,” Arthur urged, nudging Neville forward. Bill and Fleur smiled encouragingly and moved to the side, making room.
Neville set his shoulders and stepped forward. Can’t be brave if you’re not scared, he told himself, resigned to his fate.
Fortunately, it seemed his anxieties were unfounded. Harry behaved as if nothing awkward or untoward had ever happened between them.
“Neville!” Harry cried, grabbing him into a hug. “I didn’t expect to see you here! How’ve you been, mate?”
Neville could have melted with relief. “All right, Harry? Still in one piece?”
Harry laughed, dimples on full display. “Yeah, so far, at least. Watch your head.”
“What -”
“SCREE!”
The world around him darkened as a monster beat down upon them from the sky. Neville flung himself to the side, falling heavily into George’s arms.
For once, George had nothing pithy to say; they both gaped as the Bloody Huge Raven descended upon Harry, landing on his outstretched arm, digging its talons deeply into his arm guard. After a moment of flapping and cawing, the raven hopped easily from the arm guard and onto the leather shoulder pad. It was so big that it almost seemed to be standing behind him instead of on his shoulder; its wings spread protectively around Harry as it chattered loudly.
“Everyone, meet Corvo,” Harry grinned. “Mrs Weasley is already acquainted. Sorry in advance for the inevitable garden gnome genocide,” he added sheepishly.
Corvo cawed proudly and folded his magnificent wings, preening. Neville wouldn’t have been surprised if every gnome within a ten mile radius had already been snapped up.
“Is that a Dread Raven, Harry?” Charlie asked, voice filled with wonder.
“Dread Crow, actually,” Harry answered happily, reaching up to scratch Corvo’s chest plumage. “He’s really friendly, just give him a peanut and he’ll think you’re the greatest.”
“Wicked! Got any peanuts on you, Harry?” Charlie looked delighted as he inched closer to the monstrous beast.
“Oh! Where are my manners?” Mrs Weasley cried out suddenly. “Here I am just milling about - can I get anyone a drink? Arthur, summon up the patio furniture while I grab the wine.”
“I’ll help you, Molly,” Neville said quickly, anxious to get away from Harry and his terrifying bird.
He followed her inside, mentally calculating the earliest possible moment he could leave while still being polite.