He’s well past the point of “running behind” and getting close to “unacceptably late,” and the parking metre is ticking away, and it looks like it might start raining any second now if the clouds are anything to go by. It doesn’t matter, though, because at this exact second not even a surprise herd of elephants charging down the street could get Neville Longbottom to move forward.
The cafe is cool.
Not neon-signs-and-pastel-desserts-for-kids-to-take-photos-of trendy, or even glass-front-and-giant-potted-plants cool. Like, properly cool. The kind of place where all the regulars are creative revolutionaries and he’s definitely going to mispronounce everything on the menu and end up with some sort of fermented concoction he didn’t mean to order. He can practically already feel the stares, and he’s not even through the door yet.
You’re being ridiculous. This is not the thing you should be worried about right now, his brain helpfully reminds him, which has the double benefit of making it clear that he’s not going to escape judgement by staying out here and bringing up the…everything he’s avoiding thinking about. But the cafe isn’t going to miraculously become more familiar from standing out here, and he’s not…it’s better to just…and if he’s already left, then…
Anyway. Point is, he’s thirty-two years old and he doesn’t actually care what the nineteen-year-old barista thinks of him. He has to count to five in his head and resettle the hem of his sweater twice, but at least he gets through the door before the rain starts.
The inside of the cafe is about what he expected, dim and cosy and walls absolutely covered in art that’s probably at least partly made by someone in the room right now. There are even a couple giant houseplants. Much of the seating is at low tables on little pouffes that he’s one hundred percent going to trip over.
And that's pretty much the cafe, or what he can see of it. At this point he’s scanned pretty much the entire room, and he can admit to himself that what he’s looking for isn’t there. No man sitting alone at a table looking excited or anxious or however they’re supposed to be feeling right now, no familiar head of messy black hair or bright green eyes looking up to check who just walked in.
He’s really not expecting it, the way it hits him just then. Because it’s fine. He’s nearly forty minutes late, and that’s just not on, even if it’s only because he kept changing his shirt even though he only packed two options and telling himself to get out the door. It’s longer than anyone should wait, even if you haven’t seen each other in, what, eighteen years? And now he gets to go home and he doesn’t have to face whatever's scrawled on the chalkboard behind the counter. But he feels a bit like a puppet with his strings cut, all of a sudden, and he might sway a little on his feet because he’s not here.
The door creaks as another patron squeezes in behind him, and Neville shifts forward on autopilot, busy trying to make his brain behave enough to make any sort of sense. But the half step takes him just past the monstera that seems to be slowly consuming the entire front window, and he spots one more table tucked away under its swiss cheese leaves. And there, sitting at a table with two cups and a pot of tea, is a man who might be his brother.
In all his thinking about logistics and safety and what in the world they were going to say to each other after all this time, Neville hadn’t actually thought about what he was going to look like. Obviously he wasn’t expecting to meet up with the same gangly fourteen-year-old, but the broad-shouldered man sitting there in a muggle hoodie is just not computing.
But it’s definitely Harry, party because the odds of a James Potter-look-alike happening to be in this coffee shop today are low, and partly because he looks up at that moment, blinks once, and does a weird sort of half wave, a bewildered half smile on his face.
Neville starts to wave back, then remembers that he’s the one who’s supposed to move in this sort of situation and picks his way carefully around the minefield of pouffes to their chosen table. The man starts to scramble to his feet once he gets close, like Neville is some sort of Victorian lady to be greeted with a bow or something.
“Nev,” he says, in a voice that sounds so much like his brother that Neville has to do something, say something, anything, or he’s going to cry.
“Don’t bother getting up. It looks like a long climb,” he says, trying for a small smile as he eases himself down onto the waiting cushion.
Harry smiles back, wider than the joke deserves. “You’ve got that right. We’re way too old to be bending like this.”
“I- I’m sorry,” Neville says quickly, wincing as he folds his knees up under himself. “I haven’t actually been here before. I just searched up cafes and this one had five stars and I thought-”
“No, no. It’s great, Nev,” Harry says quickly, then frowns. “You do still go by Neville, right? I don’t want to-”
“No, Neville’s fine. Great, even. It’s Neville, or Nev. Yeah,” he says, then finally manages to make his mouth stop moving. What are you doing? It’s not a weird question, given everything, and it’s an easy answer. He’s Neville to his family and friends and work, even if that’s not what it says on his ID card. Not ‘Nev’ to anyone these days, really, but he doesn’t mind it. Either way.
“Yeah. Great,” Harry echoes, then tapers off. Looks past Neville, then back at him. “No surprises over here. Still just Harry.”
Neville nods, because that’s good to know, but he can’t think of anything to say back. He’s still Harry, and Neville’s still Neville, and that’s just about the only thing that hasn’t changed. And Neville had known this was going to happen, he’d had so many things he’d wanted to know when he’d first gotten Harry’s message, and he’d rehearsed so many questions on the flight and the drive, and now they’ve all fallen clean out of his head. He blinks stupidly at Harry. The door opens again, and someone brushes past their plant, sending the leaves bobbing jauntily over their heads.
“I, ah, I got you tea. They’re calling it ‘Mystic Medley,’ but I think it’s mostly chamomile,” Harry says, gesturing at the dishware in front of them. Neville looks down for the first time, taking in the beautiful teapot and the bowl that seems to be meant to be his cup, along with the empty mug that clearly contained a long-finished coffee.
“Thank you,” Neville says, beyond grateful to not have to brave the counter just then. “And I’m really sorry for being late.” He doesn’t have a proper excuse, so he just leaves it at that and reaches for the teapot.
The tea is stone cold. He can tell before he even lifts it off the table, not even a hint of warmth emanating from the pot. Which is what he deserves under the circumstances, really. He’s all set to make the best of it, but something of his reaction must show on his face because Harry winces.
“I shouldn’t have ordered as soon as I got here. I just went for it, and I totally forgot I couldn’t use a warming charm.” Harry shakes his head slightly. “Luna kept reminding me, and the first thing I do is forget.”
“It’s a big switch. Dad still forgets all the time. Ends up waving his fingers at stuff to get it to come to him. It hasn’t worked yet, though.” And hopefully it never will. That would be a mess. “The tea’s fine, though. I can drink it.”
“Nev,” Harry says, in that particular tone of voice that’s equal parts exasperated and amused and disbelieving and fond and that Neville had totally forgotten about until this exact moment. “You are not about to drink cold, hour-old tea to spare my feelings.”
Neville yet again has no idea what to say to that, so he just sort of holds the tea cup up in a way that he hopes communicates something. Apparently whatever it communicates isn’t a compelling argument for the benefits of cold tea, because Harry huffs and clambers up off his cushion. He grabs the offending pot and makes a beeline for the counter. Neville cranes around to watch his progress, then gives up when his neck protests and settles for staring out the window cleared by Harry’s absence. It’s started raining since he came in, fat droplets racing each other down the panes.
Harry’s here. The thought feels like a lie even though he can hear his voice asking the barista how her day is going. It’s hard to get his head around when he’d never imagined, never thought to even hope that they might see each other again until a woman wearing turnips as earrings turned up at his work. And now here they are, less than three months later and meeting face to face. That little boy who refused to say goodbye, who told him he’d see him again, has somehow actually made it happen.
Neville’s grateful for the short reprieve, even if he feels bad for wasting the tea. It gives him a moment to sort through his feelings and remember that he isn’t just apprehensive and terrified. He’s also thrilled, and excited, and so, so grateful. Because Harry’s here. In Australia. With him.
Said man reappears with a tray carrying another pot of tea, some sort of cinnamon-dusted frothy thing, and a plate of flaky pastries. Neville smiles his thanks, and they both busy themselves with the work of settling in again, the air full of the quiet click of porcelain against silverware and wood. Harry grabs for one of the pastries as soon as he sits down, the butter yellow dough showering down the front of his hoodie. He unashamedly picks at the flakes, eating the big ones.
This time, Neville doesn’t feel as much of a scramble to speak. He sips his tea and lets himself look at his brother, really take in this person he’s grown into. Harry’d already been most of the way through his growth spurt before he left, but Neville seems to have caught up since and there’s only an inch or two between them now. He’s filled out with adulthood and clearly does something to keep himself in shape, and his hair is longer. It’s part of why it was hard to spot him when Neville first walked in; the messy black cloud is pulled back into a low bun at the back of his neck, and the old round glasses have been replaced by something a bit more angular. And it’s weird seeing him in muggle clothes. It’s not like he’d expected Harry to show up to a muggle shop in robes, but he hadn’t really thought through that that would mean jeans. He wonders if this is a kind of undercover costume, or if Harry spends time around muggles these days. He wants to know.
All in all, he really does look just like James. Not even a younger James, necessarily, though obviously there’s a whole lot less grey in his hair. But there are what seem to be permanent dark smudges under his eyes and a shadow in his gaze that reminds Neville of James since they left. He wonders what’s happened in Britain to put them there. But there’s the start of smile lines around his lips, too, and Neville’s glad he’s had things to laugh about. And there’s only one way Neville’s going to find out anything about any of those things.
“Will you tell me something?” he asks, breaking the comfortable silence that’s settled between them.
“Hm?” Harry hums into his coffee, then hurriedly sets it down. “Sure. What do you want to know?”
Neville pauses, swallowing a lump in his throat because he really has no idea how to take this on. But this is Harry, and he can be straight with Harry. “I don’t know. Everything? I want to know literally everything, and I have no clue where to start.” Harry’s piercing green eyes stay fixed on his for a moment, and then he smiles softly. One of the hundred knots in Neville’s chest eases.
“Well, let’s see,” Harry says, gazing off into space thoughtfully. A beat, and then the smile turns into a broad grin. Not fully the wild, brilliant grin of their childhood, but close. “Well, did you know that you’re sitting across from the seeker for the winning team of the last three Quidditch World Cups?”
“What?!” His gasp is way too loud and way too shrill and people are definitely looking, but Neville can’t care. He’s too excited. “Actually?” he asks in not-quite disbelief and doesn’t wait for an answer. “That’s incredible. Amazing. No team’s ever done that before, yeah? And you went pro after Hogwarts?”
“Yeah." Harry is beaming with pride, and Neville can't blame him. "Next World Cup isn’t for another two years, but we’re going to try and make it four for four. A couple big names are retiring before then, but the new kids are looking promising.”
Neville very much doubts that anyone else counts as a ‘big name’ when Harry is on the field. “What’s your team in the league?” His information might be eighteen years out of date, but you couldn’t grow up with Harry Riddle and not know the history and stats of every team in the isles.
“Puddlemere United,” Harry says with gusto. Neville makes sure he looks duly impressed, which isn’t hard. Puddlemere’s been Harry’s team since they were six. “They’re grand. Montrose has been after me to switch over, but I’m not leaving without Ginny, and she’s not leaving for anyone but the Harpies, and I can’t go there, so it looks like we’re both staying put.”
“Ginny?” Neville prompts. The name is familiar, but…
“Ginny Weasley,” Harry supplies. “I think she was the year below you in Gryffindor? Anyway, she’s the best captain in the league. The shit she comes up with.” Harry shakes his head in clear admiration.
Neville’s stomach is doing something weird. It feels like it’s migrated a little too high into his chest. Stop it, he scolds, You want him to have friends. Which is true. It’s just odd to think about someone mattering that much to Harry when Neville can’t remember trading two words with them. But that’s how this works, isn’t it?
“How about you? What are you up to these days?” Harry asks it like it isn’t a completely impossible question. But Neville can do this. The important thing is to start somewhere. Take it on in small bites.
“Garden centre,” he says. “That is, I work at a garden centre. It’s not the World Cup, but I like it. Taking care of the plants, finding what’s going to work well for people who come in. And the guys are fun.” Neville shrugs. Fun actually means rowdy and overwhelming, but they mean well.
“That’s great,” Harry says emphatically, like Neville just said he's Prime Minister. “Maybe we could stop by? I’d love to meet them. The people and the plants.”
“Oh. I don’t actually li-” Neville’s brain catches up with his mouth and he breaks off. Swallows once. Wishes he could swallow the whole sentence, or maybe all the words he’s said so far today.
“Oh,” is all Harry says, realisation slowly dawning across his face. The truth hangs over the table. I don’t actually live here. He can practically feel the easy atmosphere around them pop as the full reality of their situation hits.
Neither of them says anything for what feels like ages but is probably a minute. Neville can’t even make himself reach for his tea cup even though it would be really nice to have something to do with his hands.
His voice croaks when he finally finds something to say, and he has to try again. “I-It’s not that I-”
“No, it’s okay, I don’t-”
“No, really, I just-”
“Nev,” Harry says, cutting him off firmly. “Really. It’s okay. I get it.” His eyes flicker to the door, then over to the group of teens in the far corner and the two men sitting by the counter. “It’s the smart thing to do.”
“I didn’t think it was a trap. But you could be followed, or tracked, or have something magical on you.”
“I was careful.”
“I know. Of course I know! I just…”
“Just that it’s been a while and you don’t know me anymore? Just that I stayed?”
“No,” he says with as much emphasis as he can muster. It’s important Harry know. He doesn’t want him to think, well, that. If they think that of each other then there’s no point to any of this. “I know you. But it’s not just me. I have to keep them safe.”
“Yeah.” Harry narrows his eyes, but then relaxes with a sigh. “No, you’re right. It’s alright. Truly. You need to be careful. It’s amazing that you all managed to disappear so well.”
Neville huffs out a laugh, though it probably doesn’t have a lot of humour in it. “You could say that. We did everything we could think of. I have no idea how your friend found us. Gave us a serious scare, to be honest.”
“Finding impossible things is pretty much what Luna does,” Harry says with such obvious fondness it aches. “But it was Gin’s friend Granger who really did it. She’s absolutely brilliant, and she’s muggleborn so she knows how that side of things works. She said something about census records and pay stubs?” Harry shrugs in clear confusion. “Point is, it took years and about a billion pages of documents that I’m definitely not asking how she got a hold of.”
“But we don’t use our real names for that kind of thing,” Neville objects.
“Like I said. Brilliant.” Harry looks downright smug, but something in Neville’s expression must tip him off to the horror curdling in his gut because he quickly turns serious. “Really, Nev, don’t worry about it. He’s not going to find you that way. They’ve got no idea how the muggles do things, and they’re not going to think to learn.”
That ‘he’ hits Neville like a brick. It’s insane, actually insane how much weight that word can hold after all this time. But it does, unleashing a tangle of emotions that Neville usually keeps firmly shoved into a locked box buried at the bottom of his psyche. He never talks about, never even thinks about him. He doesn't even know how to phrase what he feels, not even in the safety of his own brain, except to say that he still doesn’t eat basil, and not because he hates it. Maybe because it tastes like home.
It takes Neville some time to pull his attention back to the world around him, and by the time he does Harry's attacking another pastry. Neville takes a cautious sip of his tea to see if his knotted stomach can manage it, then a bigger sip when it does. It really is a good blend. He’s glad Harry picked it.
Another silence settles over them, not tense, but not as comfortable as the last one. And it’s probably Neville’s turn to come up with something to break it.
“Dad’s going to be thrilled, you know. About you going pro. Really proud,” he says. This time he even waits until Harry isn’t actively drinking or chewing. A true conversationalist, really.
Harry glances up at him, one eyebrow quirked slightly. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate it. But why would Frank care about me playing Quidditch?”
And there he goes, absolutely shoving his foot in it again. Neville could’ve just kept his mouth shut, or said literally anything else, but no. He just had to say something, and now they’re going to have to talk about it. And he hates telling people about Frank, they always get all awkward and pitying and don’t know what to say. And would Harry mind about Mom and Dad? Would that hurt him? That’s the last thing Neville wants.
Harry’s eyebrows have furrowed into a look of full on concern, so there’s no way Neville can gloss over this, even if he had the charisma to try.
Well, there’s not avoiding it, and it’s not like Neville’s going to figure out a delicate way to put it. Might as well just say it. “Frank died. About six months after we left Britain.”
“Merlin,” Harry breathes, but Neville shakes his head slightly to cut him off. He’d rather get it all out at once.
“I-it was sudden. Nobody’s fault, and it wouldn’t have mattered if we’d stayed. He wouldn’t have made it to St. Mungo’s in time. And it’s just been me and James and Lily since. They’re my Dad and Mom at this point.”
He’s watching Harry carefully to see if there’s any sort of reaction to that revelation. He really, really doesn’t want to overstep. But Harry is just watching him back with equal intensity, a look of earnest sympathy on his face. “I’m sorry, Nev. That’s awful.”
Neville shrugs. This part is always, always awkward, cause it’s not like he deserves that kind of sympathy. It’s not that kind of grief. “It’s fine. I mean, it’s sad, but it’s not like I really knew him.”
“No,” Harry agrees. “But you were so excited to. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to. It’s not fair.”
To his surprise, Neville suddenly has to blink rapidly to keep from crying, his breath hitching in his chest. Because it’s not fair, and he’s never had someone actually get it before. His mom and dad grieved Frank too, of course, but in a totally different way. And it’s not like he could explain the situation to anyone else in a way that would really communicate all of it. But this is Harry, and he gets it. He knows exactly what it cost Neville to leave with Frank, and what he gave up, and why. And the way it will all always ache so, so badly.
Harry reaches across the table to grab his shoulder, and for a while they just sit like that as Neville gets his breathing back under control. Eventually, a serviette is shoved into his hand, and Neville dabs his face dry.
“Are you-” he breaks off to clear his throat. “You really don’t mind?”
Harry frowns, puzzled. “About what?”
“That I call them Dad and Mom.”
His mouth quirks oddly, but he puffs out a laugh. “Of course not, Nev. You’re my brother, and anyway I…” he trails off, and Neville knows he’s thinking about, well, him. “I’m glad you have them,” is all Harry ends up saying.
“Me too,” Neville agrees.
It’s all been rather a lot, and for a while they shift to easier things, like the antics of their various coworkers and Neville showing off pictures of the family cat. They polish off the pastries and drink their drinks and laugh about well-worn jokes as Harry updates him on the lives of their shared friends. He notices that the report on Draco is brief and that Harry doesn’t mention Theo at all, and he really, really hopes that that is just a question of growing apart with age and not something worse, but he doesn’t push. He’d much rather hear about Pansy’s new twins and Millie’s unexpected romance with one of Puddlemere’s beaters.
It’s not just old memories, either. Harry tells him about dinners at the Burrow, and picnics at the Rookery, corners of the wizarding world Neville never went with people who sound so warm and wonderful Neville desperately wants to meet them. And Neville gets to tell Harry about all the places he’s seen in their travels since leaving, about turning a random corner in Rome and seeing the colosseum looming high overhead, and the swooping feeling in his stomach looking out at the Himalayas, and sunrise on a beach outside of Phuket. It’s been its own kind of magic, getting to see all the places on the old maps in the safehouse come to life before his eyes. Harry switches to tea after he finishes his cinnamon drink, and they make it through two more pots a piece, trying out things with names like “Fairytale Tisne” and “The Green Pixie.” There seems to be a bit of a magic theme going with the cafe’s names, and Harry gets in a few good shots about Neville’s choice of meeting spot.
“You can take the man out of the magic, but you can’t take magic out of the man,” Harry drawls in a tone that’s so remarkably similar to Draco it would make Neville smile if he was saying nearly anything else. As it is, Neville tries not to flinch and doesn’t quite manage it. Harry sobers immediately.
“You really don’t do magic anymore?” he asks, tone a little disbelieving. Neville can’t blame him.
“No. I haven’t cast a spell since I left. I think Mom’s got our wands somewhere in the attic in case of emergencies, but, well, that would cause a new emergency, wouldn't it?”
“You really think they’d find you with one spell? Even now?” Harry asks, but Neville doesn’t have to answer. They both know it's true. “What’s it like?” Harry asks quietly after a moment.
The automatic answer is on Neville’s lips before he even finishes the question. It’s fine, he wants to say. Not so bad. You get used to it. It takes physical effort to swallow it down and actually think about the question.
“It’s awful,” he says eventually. His voice is embarrassingly small. Harry just watches him, giving him time to say what he needs to.
“It doesn’t hurt, exactly. It’s not like magic is something you have to use. But it’s always there. It wants to be used, and it’s the first thing I think of to do things. And it’s just, like…” Neville casts around for how to say it. Words have never been his thing. “Magic is colour. It’s so bright, and wonderful, and pure. And not using it is like choosing to live in black and white.”
He’s not sure that’s quite it, but it’s all he’s got. And Harry looks like someone just kicked a puppy in front of him, so he either got it right or hugely overstated it.
Neville hitches one shoulder in a sort of half shrug. “It’s not just the magic, really. We’ve put everything from before away, and it can be, well, it’s hard to connect with people, yeah? There are the guys at the shop, and they’re alright, but it’s weird. ‘Cause there’s so much I can’t talk about. I mean, even the most basic questions. People ask ‘where are you from?’ and I don’t have a real answer.”
This is the most he’s ever talked about any of this. The wish to be able pluck the words out of the air and shove them back into his mouth is back, but he holds firm and keeps his chin up. He can’t quite keep from fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater, though. It’s Harry, so he can be honest, but also it’s Harry, who decided to stay. Who took the other path that Neville stepped off of. And it’s hard to admit his choice wasn’t perfect.
Harry doesn’t look pitying, though. He looks sad, and a little pissed off. “That bloody sucks, and you deserve better.” He waits until Neville is looking him dead in the eye, then continues seriously. “Are you happy?”
This time, Neville manages not to flinch. He doesn’t want Harry to ask that question, because he doesn’t want there to be any reason for him to. He would’ve so loved to be able to show up today and show off how much this was the right thing, the right choice, and maybe show Harry that he should come back with him. But that’s not the world they live in, and it’s a fair ask.
“Yes,” Neville says. For everything, he’s sure of that.
Harry keeps watching him, and Neville realises that his own shoulders are hunched up towards his ears. It takes him another moment to figure out what exactly he’s bracing for.
“You haven’t asked me to come back,” Neville says carefully. Harry’s here, with his world renowned Quidditch career and easy stories about all his friends, and Neville’s just got his gardening job and his parents and his cat, and he’s happy but he's also feeling a little defensive, all told.
But Harry is already shaking his head. “And I won’t. That’s not what this is.” He smiles tiredly, and the smudges under his eyes seem to darken. “If you ever want to, there’ll always be a place for you. But I don’t think you should.”
Neville can’t think of anything to say to that, so he just nods.
And that’s it. Harry nods back once, then launches back into the story he was telling about why they had to find a new bar for the team’s pub nights. The cafe’s filled in with the lunch crowd around them as they’ve talked, and now it slowly thins as their cups sit empty and the rain-grey outside turns to evening-grey. Harry’s thinking about getting an owl, and Neville thinks he should name it something like “Olivia” or “Teddy” so when he talks about it to other people will think the bird is his roommate or something, which isn’t funny but it seems like it right about now. There’s no one else left on the ridiculous pouffes, and Neville’s asking for clarification on exactly what a crumple-horned snorkack even is. The barista is pointedly wiping down the counter, throwing meaningful looks in their direction, and Neville’s stomach has tied itself up as tight as it was when he first walked in because he doesn’t want today to end.
It’s Harry who eventually points out that they need to leave soon, and soon actually means now, so they scramble up off the floor and steady each other as their knees reacquaint themselves with gravity. Neville does indeed end up stumbling on a pouffe as they make their way out into the slow drizzle outside. Harry laughs more than Neville feels is strictly necessary, but he also follows Neville to the rental car to keep talking even though his bus stop is in the other direction. They end up leaned up against the boot of the car in companionable silence, borrowing a few more moments against the rain.
“How about you?” Neville asks eventually. He’s surprised he doesn’t feel nervous just now, but after everything said today it’s surprisingly easy. “Are you happy?”
Harry hums, considering.
“I wasn’t,” he says slowly. “Not for a long time. But I don’t think I would’ve been any happier if I’d left.”
“And now?”
“I think I might be.” Harry pauses, and he looks almost surprised with himself when he continues, “I am, a good chunk of the time.”
Neville can feel his smile splitting across his face, broad and relieved. “Good,” he says. “That’s good.” And that is good, so he’s not sure why there’s something niggling in his brain, nagging at him that he’s missing something in this conversation. Then it hits him, and, as usual, he feels like a total idiot.
“Oh!” He lunges for the latch of the car, throwing open the boot and narrowly missing clipping Harry’s shoulder in the process. But the package is there, wrapped in its unassuming brown paper and twine. He hauls it out, the soft bundle awkward in his arms.
“What-?” Harry starts, then stops when Neville abruptly shoves it into his chest.
“Dad asked me to give you this,” Neville says hurriedly, like handing it over quickly can make up for the fact that he nearly forgot. What if he’d driven off with it? What if he’d made it all the way home? God, he can just imagine the look on Dad’s face.
“What is it?” Harry automatically moves to support the bundle in one arm like a baby, and Neville has a sudden pang of sadness that he’s not going to get to meet Pansy’s kids himself.
“It’s an invisibility cloak,” he says, but that’s not quite right. It doesn’t really get the point across. “It’s a really good invisibility cloak. It’s been passed down the Potter line for ages, and it’s never weakened or failed. I don’t-” a slow, deep breath. Count to five. “I don’t think even he could track you if-”
“Nev,” Harry breaks in softly. “I’m not leaving.”
“No! I’m not-” Ugh. He’s making a hash of things again. “That’s not what I meant.” Another breath. Or two, because this is admittedly hard. “I didn’t get it, at the time. Why you stayed. I think I was too upset about everything to really think about it.” Alice Longbottom is still a sharp ache right next to Frank in his heart. “But I missed home. So much, honestly. Still do, sometimes.”
It’s costly, to say it outloud. He has to brace himself before he looks at Harry, even after what he said about not wanting Neville to come back. But he still doesn’t look pitying, or disappointed, or smug. Not that he would.
“I’m not telling you to leave,” Neville continues. “But I know that he can be...intense. So, in case you ever need a break, or space to yourself or something, this,” he nods at the wrapped cloak, “is a way to step away for a bit.”
Neville doesn’t know how to parse the look on Harry’s face just then, but he thinks it’s good. His eyes are wide as saucers and a little wondering as he stares down at the plain brown paper.
“I don’t…” Harry trails off, then looks up at Neville. “But it’s for Potters. You should have it,” he says, and goes to hand it back.
Neville takes a full step back to avoid it, but he has to admit that something warms in his heart at this casual recognition of his parents. His family. But he shakes his head. “No. You're the one who needs it.”
Harry looks at him speculatively, but he must see the mulish set of Neville’s shoulders and the way his chin’s gone up, and he seems to decide it’s not worth the argument. Neville’s glad his brother still remembers that, too.
“You’re not wrong,” Harry says, and this time when he moves towards Neville it’s to yank him into a fierce one-armed hug.
This time, Neville doesn’t even try to say goodbye. There’s no reason to. They’re not getting rid of each other that easily.