Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Faded Enmity	By : WillGirl Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Draco/Neville Views: 6383 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I make no claims to Harry Potter, either books or movies, and all rights belong to JKR. No money or other recompense is being made from this story.

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Malfoy stepped away from him quickly, dropping his hand as if it might burn him—or the other way around—the instant they reappeared. He looked around Neville’s rooms with a dull sort of curiosity, half-disinterested but unable to fully ignore his surroundings.

It was a warm, cozy room, full of comfortable earth-browns, off-set with the occasional splash of red-and-gold (Neville was a Gryffindor through-and-through, and after seven years at Hogwarts, those colors meant home to him). The furniture was all squishy and looked very comfortable, the sort of chairs and couches that you could sink into and throw your feet up on without worrying about mussing things up. The place was relatively neat and tidy, especially for a twenty-three-year-old bachelor, with only a few forgotten mugs scattered around the bookshelves; two or three jackets and robes tossed over chairs rather than folded neatly in the bedroom, or hung on the hooks by the door. Not that Neville usually entered by the door, but—it seemed the place to have cloak-hooks, anyway.

There were, of course, plenty of plants; Neville was a Herbologist, so it was to be expected. Most of the ones in the living room were harmless, ordinary things, with a few interesting cross-breeds—mostly of his own making—scattered amongst them. Most of his plants, however, were in the second bedroom, which Neville had converted into a magnificent greenhouse.

The tall glass door separating the rooms was misty with condensation, and glowed a nice, rich green from the warm sunlight filtering through all those plants. The sunlight was, of course, magical rather than real; Neville preferred real light, but a flat in London wasn’t really designed to get that, and anyway, the November skies of England didn’t offer all that much sun to work with, ordinarily. So Neville had had the glass charmed: an expensive procedure, but one that a Hero of the War could get for free, so long as he was willing to tell people which firm he had used—their business had skyrocketed as a result, and all the nasty rumors they’d been fighting had vanished so quickly they might never have existed at all.

Neville had taken the smaller bedroom for himself, and its interior looked like a grown-up version of Gryffindor Tower, all reds and golds and warm comfort. That was where most of his photographs hung. Many of them had been taken by the late Collin Creevey, and showed Neville and his friends from the DA and the Order. There was Gran, too, of course, and the rest of his family. He also had one picture of his parents when they were young and whole, and one of them now, scared and twitchy. He kept that one facing away from his bed, but within arms-reach. Neville didn’t like to wake up to it, but sometimes he wanted to see them as he knew them, even though he preferred to think of their unscathed youth.

The small kitchen was the tidiest room in the flat, because Neville was a smart enough Herbologist to know that when you worked with dangerous plants, it was important to make sure that nothing was getting into your food accidentally. It was a crowded, dull yellow room, and it looked like it had been made out of afternoon sunshine. It had been painted that way when he’d moved in, and Neville had liked the cheerfulness of it, and done very little redecorating in there, much to his Gran’s chagrin. She thought it looked quaint and tacky, and Neville loved it for that.

Neville shucked his cloak and held out his hand for Malfoy’s. The other man hesitated before undoing the buckles and handing it over. Neville hung them both on the hooks by the door, figuring that throwing things over chair-backs in front of company would look bad.

“Shower’s down the hall, door on the left,” he said, pointing. “If you want to go get cleaned up, I’ll see what I can do about food. You allergic to anything?”

Draco shook his head mutely, nervous suspicion still lurking in his eyes.

“Right,” said Neville, “take your time.”

He turned to the kitchen and started pulling open cabinets, listening closely. After a few minutes he heard the sound of tentative footsteps shuffling out of the room and down the short hallway. A door opened and closed, and Neville sat down, wondering when he had lost his mind.

What was he doing, being nice to Draco Malfoy? Draco was a bully and a Death Eater; a cold, heartless bastard, who had actually tried to kill some of Neville’s friends, once. He had teased and tormented Neville through their whole seven years of school—well, for the first five of them, at least, Neville amended grudgingly. During those last two, Malfoy had kept to himself, and left Neville completely at peace. It hadn’t been because of Dumbledore’s Army, either, or because of Neville’s newfound confidence or skill with spells, Neville admitted, but rather because Malfoy had been pulled into Voldemort’s service, and his world had been crashing down around him during those last two years. He hadn’t had the time or spirit to bully anyone.

Neville didn’t know why he was suddenly pitying Draco Malfoy for that, though. Malfoy didn’t deserve pity; he didn’t deserve anything but what he’d got, unless a cell for him suddenly opened up in Azkaban. Malfoy was reaping nothing more than what he’d sown for five long years of bullying, and two longer ones as one of Lord Voldemort’s Death Eaters.

So why did the sight of the arrogant, sneering boy turned into a waif-like, trembling shell of a man make Neville feel...guilty, somehow?

Neville scrubbed his hands over his face and growled. Curse that Gryffindor nobility...

He dragged himself out of his chair to put tea on, and start something cooking. He would feed Malfoy, maybe offer him his couch for the night, if he could be civil through the meal, and then send him on his way with breakfast, and never have to see him again, and that would be the end of Neville Longbottom’s guilt over the cold fate that Draco Malfoy so richly deserved.

And the next time Neville was sauntering down Knockturn Alley and saw a pale, familiar figure, he would turn around and walk the other way.
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