Warning: Please note that some stories may be rated NC17. If you are under the legal age of adulthood in your country of residence, or if you are offended by the idea of slash (stories containing male/male sex) or adult themes, including BDSM and other sexual kinks, please go and find something else to read.
Title: Broken
Pairing: Harry/Neville
Rated: G
WC: 1104
Warning: This is a break up scene.
Summary: 2 years post Hogwarts, Harry is finally released from St. Mungo's. Neville is part of the life he wants to leave behind.
A/N: Wow, I didn't know I could write angst. Well, since it's Harry and Neville I guess it's really flangst. Or wangst - woobie angst, rhymes with wanks. :-)
"I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for me, Neville," Harry said while they waited for the server to bring their lunch.
"Well, it's my job," Neville deflected the praise lightly. Something was off. Harry never thanked him before. Helping with the physical therapy as the bones knit and the spell damage wore off was in fact Neville's current job at St. Mungo's. Also, he changed bed pans as well as beds, disposed of biomagical waste, served and bussed meal trays, and helped out in the medicinal gardens and labs.
"I know it's your job and I wish you well with it. You're really very good." Harry offered a sheepish smile. "Anyone who could put up with me has the patience of a saint!"
"You weren't that bad, honest, Harry." Neville tried to offer a shy grin in reply, but his lips wouldn't obey the command to lift. His voice became strained. "You sound like you're saying good-bye."
"Well, I am, aren't I?"
Their waiter arrived levitating a tray to their table then proceeded to float drinks and dishes in front of them. Appetizing smells filled the air.
"It was great seeing you every day. I couldn't have held on without you, but now I'm out. So I won't see you as much," Harry said simply before digging into his meal, as though the mathematical proof was obvious.
1 - 1 = 0 = what Neville means to Harry despite snogging him every night for the past two months.
Neville almost said, 'And here I was thinking that you were waiting till you got released to fuck me, not fuck me over.' He held his tongue and picked up his fork, but found himself suddenly too nauseous to eat. He pushed the colorful offering around the plate, fighting the desire to beg. Then, because he wanted it absolutely clear, that Harry was in truth dumping him again, he said, "We can see each other as much as we want. I got some tickets to the Cannons match this weekend." He peeked up to see the effect of his words.
Harry eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh, you shouldn't have. I'm . . . I have plans. I'm sorry." Harry continued eating. After a few bites he said, "Well . . . Neville . . . I think we should both move on. I have to get out and find myself again. I mean, two years in St. Mungo's. And all the fighting before that. I mean, it's like I've been in a body bind since Hogwarts."
"Yes, of course, Harry. I understand."
But he didn't. He couldn't begin to understand why Harry had led him on for the last 6 months. He was the one who had talked about moving in together once he was well enough to leave the hospital. He was the one who volunteered to help Neville with his plans for medicinal plant research and development. He was the one who'd initiated and then insisted on their clandestine evening snog sessions.
"I think I'll travel first. There are so many things to see."
All Neville wanted to see was Harry's face in the morning, every morning. He vaguely wondered why everything was going grey. Must be the low light of the restaurant.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
Neville looked down to his untouched plate. "Guess I wasn't hungry after all," he said quietly, meeting Harry's eyes with a brave smile. I love you. Desperately. Unrequited. What can I do to make you love me? I thought you loved me. All those nights . . . all those things you said . . . were they just lies?
Neville watched as the color continued to leech out of his world. He let Harry pay the check, then they were out on the street. He could barely feel it as Harry hugged him, could barely hear it as Harry whispered, "Now you're free of me. Free to find someone who can give you everything you deserve."
"Take care," Neville answered. His hands shook while he watched Harry walk away. Cries of anguish strangled stillborn in his throat. He turned away to hide tears streaming down his cheeks. How could he have been so stupid? To think he mattered to the great Harry Potter, most high and mighty savior of the wizarding world? To think he was someone worthy of love? To think Harry wanted his simple honest heart? He blinked and tried to get a grip on himself. He had to get away from here. He had a great throbbing pain in his chest stabbing in time with his pulse. He closed his eyes and apparated home. Alone.
Grey days turned into weeks which became months. Neville wanted to see color again. He wanted to feel the touch of a lover. He wanted Harry's touch, but that was no longer his to claim. Never again his to claim. The Prophet told of Harry's new house and travels. Witch Weekly told of the passion of the Boy Who Loved.
Neville put on a tight black T-shirt and wandered into a muggle dance club he'd heard about. The place was packed with men writhing and gyrating to the fast beat of muggle music, some sort of computer generated techno pop. Lights flashed and spun, yet still Neville couldn't distinguish any colors. He downed a whiskey neat and leaned back against the bar to take in the spectacle.
In time, he thought he saw . . . could it be? Neville made his way amongst the dancers seeking out the elusive green spark. He bobbed and swayed, gradually loosening into the rhythm. A dark haired man, several inches shorter than him was dancing enthusiastically, thrusting his hips from side to side, snapping his fingers, and jerking his head around. Before he could think, Neville reached out to grab his shoulder. The man turned at the touch, and Neville saw green eyes meet his in surprise which melted into a pleased smile. He matched his movements to Neville's slow deliberate sway, then added quick little embellishments that flattered and complimented.
When the song ended, he gripped Neville's bicep. "Hey, that was brilliant. I'm Charles. Ya wanna get out of here?"
"Oh yeah. Let's." Color seemed to spread across his vision in pulses that matched his heartbeat. It was muddy, dusty, and faded, true. The green was an unholy artificially colored contact lens, but it was enough to settle for, enough to cover over an old useless memory like a clean bandage on an old seeping infection.
It was no more than Neville deserved.
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