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hpvalensmut reveals are up already! OMG, yay, that was so fast. And now if anyone's wondering why Mercy didn't get finished in the last couple of months and I haven't quite polished off that extra chapter to Wheel of the Moon, this is why. This is one of my favorite things I've ever written (it feels like I've been saying that about every fest lately, but it's true).
I know there aren't a lot of slash readers on my flist, but I hope some of you guys will give it a chance and read. It's very much in the same vein as In the House of Fallen Angels, IMO (and was equally absorbing as far as creative energy went, which is why I didn't get much else done while writing it), and I think people liked that one, so. Anyway, I was totally overwhelmed by the response to this one, which I guess proves that I'm crap at predicting what people will like. So. I'll stop rambling now and just post the darn fic.
Title: Slice of Life
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4360
Pairing: Charlie/Neville
Summary: It's ridiculous, really, for a twenty year-old man to be traipsing all over England in search of someone who can heal an injured toad, but it means something to Neville.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
prurient_badger for hpvalensmut. Special thanks to ellensmithee for the beta and to thenotoriousso4 and butter_cup_ for the read-throughs, and to all three of you for listening to me whine and wibble, which is pretty much a full time job in itself.
Neville thinks that war feels a lot like the dead of winter. It feels like standing in the frozen air before dawn, when the world is heavy and silent with snow. It feels like being alone. This war should have ended years ago, and each day that it goes on, Neville thinks he can hear the quiet creeping closer. It's been days since he's spoken to anyone but Trevor.
He tucks the shoebox under his arm, cringing every time he feels the weak, thumping pulse of Trevor flopping about inside, presumably trying to free his little legs from the strings that bind them to his body. It's like the heartbeat of some sickly thing pounding against his ribs and he shifts again, carrying it out in front of him. It's ridiculous, really, for a twenty year-old man to be traipsing all over England in search of someone who can heal an injured toad, but it means something to Neville.
The fog is so thick that Neville can hardly see in front of him, and he has to step onto the front stoop of each building to read the numbers over the door. When he gets to the right one, he knocks twice, just like Ron told him to, and waits for the count of three before he opens it up and steps inside. There's life in this house and Neville can feel it, like he hasn't felt it since he can remember. It's odd to him after all these months of, and it makes him want to shrink back into the corners, to become invisible. He sticks one hand in his pocket, his fingers roaming over the smooth surface of his journal as he looks around.
Trevor thumps in the box again.
There's a wooden carving on the wall in the sitting room, the dark wood standing out in stark contrast to the white wall. Neville takes a few steps closer to get a better look, anything to avoid finding someone in the house just yet. He still feels silly for even being here. He thinks the carving must be Muggle, even though the man is wearing robes. They're definitely not wizard's robes. His belt is tied with a rope and his hands are raised in a way that gives Neville some hope, though he doesn't understand why. On the man's shoulder sits a single dove, and Neville cocks his head to examine it.
"Oh, hey! Sorry I wasn't down here when you came in. Just got out of the shower and had to wrap up. It's Neville, right?"
Neville turns around to see Charlie Weasley grinning at him over the thick, brown scarf wrapped several times around his neck.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
This house isn't what I thought it would be. It's warm inside, like the Burrow. And somehow Charlie's figured out a way to keep the dampness out. He's smarter than I thought he'd be. I know that sounds bad, but from what Ron told me I was expecting him to be more like Crabbe or Goyle. I'm glad Ron told me about the scars before I got here so I didn't stare. They're some of the worst I've seen. He keeps them covered with a scarf most of the time, but when he takes it off, he doesn't seem to notice them at all.
He thinks he can help Trevor, but he says it'll take some time. I don't think it'll be so bad to stay here for a while. At least this house is safe.
~ N
~@~@~@~
"I hope you don't mind vegetarian," Charlie says over his shoulder, the good one. He grins at Neville briefly, then turns his attention back to the vegetables he's tossing in the pan. "I, ah, have a thing about the smell of meat cooking since… Well, you know."
There's no regret in his voice, no shame, and Neville watches him with an odd sort of fascination. He's taken off the scarf to cook, and the deep welts left from the burns are visible creeping up from his elbow toward his shoulder and over the back of his neck on one side. Ron says that Charlie was on fire for so long that he shouldn't be alive, and it was only because he could get to the creek bed and submerge the rest of his body.
Hestia Jones was the one who finally reached him to put it out, says Ron, just before the green flash of a Death Eater's curse took her out. Ron's voice always wavers during that part of the story, and Neville knows it's because Ron killed the Death Eater who did it.
"Done!" Charlie says, sliding Neville's plate across the table to him. "Here, I'll wrap up so you can eat. S'not exactly an appetizing sight, I know."
"It's not so bad," Neville says, lying as he watches Charlie wind the scarf around his neck.
"I have mirrors in the house, Neville. I know what I look like now." Charlie grins.
Neville shrugs and sticks his fork into something green and leafy, frowning at it for a moment before taking a bite. The food is better than he expects and he gives Charlie a grateful grin before tucking into it.
"I've gotta give Trevor another round of potion after dinner," says Charlie, breaking the companionable silence between them. "You want to help me out with that one? You liked Herbology, right?"
"Uh huh," Neville says, and Charlie grins again.
"Yeah, I thought Ron said something about that," says Charlie. "Good then. I've got some hellebore that'll need to be cut and chopped just right so we can add it to the potion right before we give it to him."
"All right," says Neville. "Do you reckon he has a chance of making it?"
Charlie looks confident, and he waves his fork in the air as he speaks. "Of course he does. I'll look after him. You've got nothing to worry about."
Neville thinks that Charlie must be the first person he's met since Hagrid who didn't say, 'But it's only a toad'.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Charlie says that carving in the sitting room is a Muggle monk called St. Francis. He's got a few statues of St. Francis in other parts of the house, too. He was good with animals, Charlie says. He says he keeps the statues around for company.
I think I know how he feels.
~N
~@~@~@~
Charlie can't hear out of his left ear anymore, and Neville has taken to making sure Charlie's actually listening when he talks. During the first few days he'd been here, he often found himself asking questions that went unanswered. It had been embarrassing for him, and awkward, when he realized he was talking into Charlie's deaf ear. Charlie never seems to be embarrassed or awkward.
There are moments Neville wants to grab him and shake him and shout in his face, anything it takes to make Charlie acknowledge that there are people outside these walls dying every day. To force Charlie to realize that Neville has no idea where Ron, Harry and Hermione are and that it's driving him out of his mind. Then he wonders if maybe that's what Charlie's problem is: maybe he's gone mad already. Maybe something's wrong with Neville that he hasn't noticed it until now. He used to think he knew what madness looked like.
There's a statue of St. Francis sitting on the long, empty table in the dining room, all alone like an obscenely oversized centerpiece. Charlie is sitting in a chair facing the statue with Trevor's box in front of him. Charlie's holding an eyedropper in front of the toad's face, and they're patiently waiting for the toad to take the potion.
"We had an Ironbelly in Romania who wouldn't touch the pain potion he needed for a fractured wing," Charlie says, reaching into the box and gingerly stroking the base of Trevor's throat. "The trick is to get him to relax and feel comfortable with you. The Ironbelly liked being scratched with a big brush right behind his ear. Trevor here seems to like," he rubs his fingertip in circles against Trevor's throat, "this."
Trevor opens his mouth and Charlie lets two glistening blue drops of potion fall in.
"There. That wasn't so bad."
Trevor flails suddenly, his front legs shooting out to the sides and twitching, and Neville makes a sound like a frightened dog, an embarrassing sound that a man his age should never make. Not over a toad, anyway.
Charlie reaches out and squeezes Neville's shoulder. "S'all right," he says. "It'll pass. That happens sometimes."
Neville frowns. "He doesn't look good."
"He'll be okay," Charlie says, but when he raises his gaze from the box, he makes eye contact with St Francis and not Neville.
Neville watches this for a moment before speaking.
"Is that one new?" he asks. "I don't remember it when I got here."
"No," Charlie says, looking away with palpable reluctance. "No, he's been here a while." Then he grins and Neville realizes Charlie's hand is still on his arm.
It's absurd, but Neville wants to reach out and pull down that scarf and lick Charlie's neck. He squeezes his eyes shut instead.
"All right?" asks Charlie.
Neville can't answer him right away.
"Yeah," says Neville, finally opening his eyes. "I think I'm getting a little claustrophobic. That's all."
"Oh," Charlie says. "I, um… I don't get that way. It's safe in here."
Neville can feel the pads of Charlie's fingers digging into his skin and he gives Charlie a nervous smile. Charlie strokes Neville's shoulder with his thumb.
"You should stay inside," he says. "It's safe."
Neville's no longer sure that's true.
"Until Trevor's better," Charlie adds as an afterthought. He finally drops his hand, but Neville will swear he can still feel its warm imprint long into the night.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Sometimes this house is so small I can hardly breathe.
~ N
~@~@~@~
When Charlie gets out of the shower, he walks past Neville's room on the way to his own, his good side facing Neville's door. Neville pretends he doesn't notice the shimmering beads of water on Charlie's skin, the way they make the rare spaces between freckles blend together entirely. He's so busy pretending not to notice that it takes him nearly a minute to realize that Charlie has stopped in front of is door and is watching him.
"All right in there?" Charlie asks.
"Oh," says Neville. "Um, yeah. I was just… Just sitting here."
It's then that Neville notices the three tiny statues of St Francis lined up neatly on the edge of his dresser.
"Did you put those there?" asks Neville.
"Ah, yeah," says Charlie, turning to face Neville and rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up at the dresser. "I thought you could use the company."
Neville nods. St Francis is everywhere now, and there's no place in the house that will allow Neville to escape his gaze. When he dreams at night, he's starting to see St. Francis. And Charlie.
Mostly Charlie.
"You don't mind, do you?" Charlie asks, rearranging the statues a bit.
"Uh, no," Neville says, but he's too busy noticing the way Charlie's scars look like winding vines, climbing up his shoulder, blossoming across his neck. The scars aren't ugly when Neville sees them like that; they're beautiful. He blinks twice, then looks Charlie in the eye.
"Where do you get them all?" he asks.
Charlie just smiles the uneven smile of someone with a secret. Then he winks.
"Around," he says. "I should put some clothes on. S'freezing in here."
As he walks away, Neville watches the way the wet towel clings to Charlie's arse, and immediately he's uncomfortable. He grabs his wand to shut the door and fidgets in his too tight trousers before tearing them open and thrusting his hand inside.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Trevor's dying. I can feel it. I don't know if Charlie doesn't want to tell me, or if he's just so bloody mad that he hasn't noticed. Those stupid statues are everywhere in this house now. He gets more every day, I think. They're just sitting there, gathering dust and watching me. I'm sick of being watched. No matter where I go in this house, there are eyes on me. Charlie's, I don't mind so much. He's a good man, even if he is a bit mad.
Maybe we all are these days. I miss my friends.
~ N
~@~@~@~
The first time Charlie kisses Neville, it's right after they've tried to give Trevor his potion. Tried is the operative word. Trevor won't take his potion tonight and Charlie says that next time they might try with a needle, like Muggles. Neville's eyes fill with tears and he feels like an idiot because he's twenty, not twelve, (why does he have to keep reminding himself of that?) and Charlie and St. Francis are watching him.
Charlie dips his head, the movement so slow and smooth that Neville hardly notices it until Charlie's lips are brushing across his. He feels small and soft and weak in contrast to Charlie, who's pressing against him now, hard and strong. Neville lifts up his arms when Charlie tugs at his shirt, trying to concentrate on Charlie's tongue sliding against his, trying so hard not to look awkward, that he stumbles as Charlie pulls the shirt off over his head. Charlie laughs and reaches out to grab Neville by the arms and pull him close.
Even Charlie's hands are strong, and Neville draws a brave breath against the ringing criticisms of inferiority playing over and over again in his head. It's too late to suck in his stomach, he reckons, and he stops thinking about it all together when Charlie dips down to catch Neville's nipple between his teeth.
"Brilliant," Neville breathes.
Charlie chuckles, his mouth vibrating warmly against Neville's skin as his hands roam over Neville's torso.
"Love touching you," Charlie murmurs against the hollow at the base of Neville's throat, his fingertips slipping inside the waistband of Neville's jeans. "Been dying to touch you, Nev."
"Uh huh," Neville says, and then he whimpers because Charlie is opening his jeans and shoving them down and - Oh, God.
Neville reaches for Charlie's hair, but Charlie keeps it closely cropped and there's nothing to hold onto as Charlie pushes him back against the table. But Neville doesn't care, because Charlie wants him. Staggering and tripping and making eager, desperate noises, that's how Charlie wants him. Charlie's hands are on his hips and Charlie's breath is hot on his cock and Neville's never even let himself think about something as brilliant as this. He lies back on the table, shivering as the gooseflesh rises all over his skin at the cold touch of smooth wood.
Neville spreads his arms out, feeling like some sort of living sacrifice as he looks up to see St. Francis staring down at him. But then Charlie's lips are on his cock, followed by Charlie's mouth, and it's warm and wet and - God, he can't think about anything else. Charlie's throat tightens around the head of Neville's prick and it takes all of Neville's willpower not to jerk his hips off the table and thrust for more. Instead, he raises his legs to wrap around Charlie's torso. Charlie holds on, stroking Neville's thighs with strong, rough hands while Neville squirms on the table.
When Charlie lets go, Neville is just about to come, and he gasps and pants and shudders to hold on, but it's all forgotten a second later as Charlie falls over him. Neville can't remember when Charlie took his own clothes off, but it doesn't seem to matter. Charlie, with scars and burns and freckles that melt away around the edges of his disfigured shoulder, is gorgeous, and Neville gives him a grin to match Charlie's own.
Charlie slides a finger inside Neville, a wet, slippery finger that can only be that way because of magic, and Neville doesn't know anything about any of this. But he knows that he likes it a whole lot. This isn't his first time, but Neville quickly decides that inexperienced fumbling doesn't count anymore. Only Charlie counts. And then there are two fingers, and then the head of Charlie's cock, and Charlie is making this face that makes Neville's insides spin and leap and then he's coming all over his belly as Charlie thrusts inside him.
"Sorry," Neville says through a hitching breath. "Sorry."
"Not sorry," Charlie says with a grunt, burying his face in Neville's shoulder. "Perfect. S'all perfect. Do you feel that?" He pulls out slowly and thrusts inside again and Neville thinks that Charlie must be touching every last part of him all at once. "Perfect."
Neville raises his arms and wraps them around Charlie's back. He looks up at St. Francis with a ridiculous smile on his face and, for just a moment, the whole world is right.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
I don't care if Charlie has lost his mind. That shag was amazing.
~ N
~@~@~@~
Charlie stands at the windowsill, his hands digging into St. Francis's stiff stone shoulders as he stares blankly ahead of him. The only thing outside that window is a high brick wall.
"I did everything I could," he says without looking back at Neville.
"Oh." Neville doesn't know what to say to that. He should have seen this coming. When Bellatrix cast Crucio on Trevor, he should have seen it coming. How could a toad survive that, he wonders?
"I thought I could save him," Charlie says.
"I know," says Neville. "I thought you could, too." He wants to cry, but his pride won't let him. Then he hears a sound cutting through the silence, hoarse and shallow and broken, and he realizes that Charlie is crying enough for both of them.
Neville crosses the room and presses his hand to Charlie's back. If he splays his fingers, he can feel the smooth, healthy skin beneath his thumb while his little finger slides into the deep groove of Charlie's scars. Charlie shivers.
"It's gonna be lonely in this house now," he says quietly. "Just the two of us and Francis. He needs us now, you know. He's not going to take this well."
Neville presses his forehead to Charlie's back.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
I was lying before. I do care. I don't want to see him like this anymore.
I miss Trevor.
Stupid toad.
~ N
~@~@~@~
If someone would ask – and Neville's sure that they never will, since no one seems to know, or care, that he's here – Neville would tell them he has no idea why he stays on. What he came for is gone, and the house's initial hospitality has cracked and shattered all around him, revealing the rotten walls beneath the façade. But he stays because Charlie's bed is warm, and Charlie's mouth on his cock is brilliant, and St. Francis in his many incarnations needs dusting. He stays because he's not so sure Charlie can take care of himself anymore.
It's become worse since he arrived; he knows that. He wonders sometimes if it's him. Maybe it's not the Lestranges, or the war, or any of those other things that make people go mad. Maybe it's Neville.
He presses his head back against the wall and wonders if Harry has killed Voldemort yet. Or if Voldemort has killed Harry. He just wants it to be over. He wants to step out into the sunshine and into freedom with Charlie, even though he can't imagine Charlie wanting him in the real world. In a world where he has a choice between Neville and everyone else. In a world where he might be sane again.
"Look what I've found!" Charlie says, his grin brighter than Neville's seen it in days.
He's holding up a shoebox, the one Trevor arrived in, and a small, grey mouse is skidding from side to side within it. Neville wants to hate Charlie when he sees this. This is Trevor's shoebox, not a home for some dirty little mouse.
"He came to visit us," Charlie said. "So we won't be so lonely anymore. So Francis will have someone to look after."
Neville frowns. "Charlie," he asks, finally, after all the months or weeks or days he's been staying here, "what are you doing here? In this house?"
Charlie grins and sets the shoebox down on the table, in the middle of a horseshoe of St. Francis statues.
"Where are those coming from?" Neville asks, and he can hear a note of hysteria in his own voice.
Charlie doesn't answer, he just strolls across the room toward Neville, and Neville backs up until he bumps the windowsill, one tiny, ceramic St. Francis tumbling to the ground and shattering. Charlie doesn't even look down. He's standing in front of Neville now, so close that Neville can swear he feels Charlie's heart beating against his chest.
"Charlie," Neville says, pleadingly. "Charlie."
Charlie smirks, drawing one finger down Neville's cheek, then dropping to his knees. Shards of St. Francis crunch beneath Charlie's knees against the wooden floor.
Neville grips the windowsill behind him and his eyes flutter shut, and Charlie's mouth swallows the entire world.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
This house is all wrong. I don't know what I'm doing here. Sometimes I don't recognize Charlie at all. Sometimes I think that I don't ever want to see him again.
~N
~@~@~@~
"We've made some progress today," the medi-witch says in a low, soothing voice.
Charlie rubs his upper arms. He's been hugging himself out here in the hall, waiting for her to appear, for what seems like hours. When he glances at the clock on the wall, he sees that it's only been 20 minutes. Sometimes St. Mungo's makes him lose all sense of time.
"Yeah?" he says. He hates it when they talk down to him, and that's what she's doing. 'We' haven't made any progress at all, Charlie thinks.
"A little bit," she says, and Charlie can tell she's trying to be kind, so he doesn't complain.
"Has he written any more in the journal?" Charlie asks.
By the way she lowers her eyes, he can tell that the answer is yes.
"I want to read it," he says.
"Mr. Weasley, I'm not sure… Progress is defined in many different ways."
"I want to read it," Charlie says again, and he clenches his jaw to keep his temper in check. It's not their fault, after all.
The medi-witch sighs. "One moment," she says, and she disappears behind a curtain, emerging a moment later with the journal. "Remember, this doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's not to be taken literally."
Charlie snatches the journal out of her hands and opens to the latest entry.
Dear Journal,
This house is all wrong. I don't know what I'm doing here. Sometimes I don't recognize Charlie at all. Sometimes I think that I don't ever want to see him again.
~N
Charlie feels cold. This is what they call progress? This? He's not ashamed when they show him the entries that describe his scars – the ones he keeps hidden beneath the heavy scarf – in graphic detail. He even feels a small flare of pride when the embarrassed medi-witch hands him the entry calling Charlie a brilliant shag. But this, this feels like rejection and it's personal and he thinks that it's none of their business. He thinks that some things should stay just between Charlie and Neville. But nothing has stayed just between them for months now.
The medi-witch gently takes the journal from his hands.
"You have to understand," she says, "Cruciatus damaged patients are highly unpredictable. Tomorrow might be better."
"I'd like to see him now," Charlie says dully, cutting her off.
"Of course."
Charlie follows her down the corridor, barely listening to her nervous small talk, and he waits patiently for her to pull back the curtain. As soon as he can see Neville, he doesn't wait for the medi-witch's permission. Instead, he ignores her as he brushes past, dropping down in the chair beside Neville's bed and resting his elbows on his knees.
"Hey," he says, and his grin is genuine. He's never been able to look at Neville and not grin. "You've still got it, yeah?"
He nods to the statue Neville sits clutching in both hands. It's a small, wooden carving of St. Francis that Charlie got off a Muggle peddler in Romania years ago. He'd thought it was neat at the time – symbolic of someone who got on with creatures as well as Charlie did. Neville seemed taken with it from the first time he saw it. After the attack, when it became clear they weren't going to let Charlie take care of Neville on his own, Charlie couldn't leave St. Mungo's without knowing there was someone there to watch over Neville for him. Even if it was just a ridiculous Muggle carving.
"Careful with that," he says, as he starts to unwind his scarf. St. Francis's head has lost its glossy finish on one side where Neville compulsively rubs it with his thumb. "S'one of a kind, you know."
Charlie sets the scarf over the arm of the chair, and reaches for the coffee the medi-witch has brought. He'll spend the afternoon pretending that Neville's answering his questions and chattering away, and for three short hours today, he'll forget that Neville's sitting in a hospital bed across the hall from Neville's parents.
And tonight he'll go home and take care of Trevor and pretend that everything's just as it should be while Neville stays in his bed and writes in his journal. Sometimes Neville writes about things that really happened. Usually, he doesn't. He doesn't live with Charlie anymore, or even at St. Mungo's. Now Neville lives in some house in his head that Charlie's never seen, in some fractured version of a world that didn't last for long enough, and Charlie… Charlie's still here.
And also,el_em_en_oh_pee wrote that amazing Percy/Oliver, secure in his disbelief; for me! So if you haven't read that yet, go! Now! It's incredible!!
hpvalensmut reveals are up already! OMG, yay, that was so fast. And now if anyone's wondering why Mercy didn't get finished in the last couple of months and I haven't quite polished off that extra chapter to Wheel of the Moon, this is why. This is one of my favorite things I've ever written (it feels like I've been saying that about every fest lately, but it's true). I know there aren't a lot of slash readers on my flist, but I hope some of you guys will give it a chance and read. It's very much in the same vein as In the House of Fallen Angels, IMO (and was equally absorbing as far as creative energy went, which is why I didn't get much else done while writing it), and I think people liked that one, so. Anyway, I was totally overwhelmed by the response to this one, which I guess proves that I'm crap at predicting what people will like. So. I'll stop rambling now and just post the darn fic.
Title: Slice of Life
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 4360
Pairing: Charlie/Neville
Summary: It's ridiculous, really, for a twenty year-old man to be traipsing all over England in search of someone who can heal an injured toad, but it means something to Neville.
A/N: Written for
prurient_badger for hpvalensmut. Special thanks to ellensmithee for the beta and to thenotoriousso4 and butter_cup_ for the read-throughs, and to all three of you for listening to me whine and wibble, which is pretty much a full time job in itself.Neville thinks that war feels a lot like the dead of winter. It feels like standing in the frozen air before dawn, when the world is heavy and silent with snow. It feels like being alone. This war should have ended years ago, and each day that it goes on, Neville thinks he can hear the quiet creeping closer. It's been days since he's spoken to anyone but Trevor.
He tucks the shoebox under his arm, cringing every time he feels the weak, thumping pulse of Trevor flopping about inside, presumably trying to free his little legs from the strings that bind them to his body. It's like the heartbeat of some sickly thing pounding against his ribs and he shifts again, carrying it out in front of him. It's ridiculous, really, for a twenty year-old man to be traipsing all over England in search of someone who can heal an injured toad, but it means something to Neville.
The fog is so thick that Neville can hardly see in front of him, and he has to step onto the front stoop of each building to read the numbers over the door. When he gets to the right one, he knocks twice, just like Ron told him to, and waits for the count of three before he opens it up and steps inside. There's life in this house and Neville can feel it, like he hasn't felt it since he can remember. It's odd to him after all these months of, and it makes him want to shrink back into the corners, to become invisible. He sticks one hand in his pocket, his fingers roaming over the smooth surface of his journal as he looks around.
Trevor thumps in the box again.
There's a wooden carving on the wall in the sitting room, the dark wood standing out in stark contrast to the white wall. Neville takes a few steps closer to get a better look, anything to avoid finding someone in the house just yet. He still feels silly for even being here. He thinks the carving must be Muggle, even though the man is wearing robes. They're definitely not wizard's robes. His belt is tied with a rope and his hands are raised in a way that gives Neville some hope, though he doesn't understand why. On the man's shoulder sits a single dove, and Neville cocks his head to examine it.
"Oh, hey! Sorry I wasn't down here when you came in. Just got out of the shower and had to wrap up. It's Neville, right?"
Neville turns around to see Charlie Weasley grinning at him over the thick, brown scarf wrapped several times around his neck.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
This house isn't what I thought it would be. It's warm inside, like the Burrow. And somehow Charlie's figured out a way to keep the dampness out. He's smarter than I thought he'd be. I know that sounds bad, but from what Ron told me I was expecting him to be more like Crabbe or Goyle. I'm glad Ron told me about the scars before I got here so I didn't stare. They're some of the worst I've seen. He keeps them covered with a scarf most of the time, but when he takes it off, he doesn't seem to notice them at all.
He thinks he can help Trevor, but he says it'll take some time. I don't think it'll be so bad to stay here for a while. At least this house is safe.
~ N
~@~@~@~
"I hope you don't mind vegetarian," Charlie says over his shoulder, the good one. He grins at Neville briefly, then turns his attention back to the vegetables he's tossing in the pan. "I, ah, have a thing about the smell of meat cooking since… Well, you know."
There's no regret in his voice, no shame, and Neville watches him with an odd sort of fascination. He's taken off the scarf to cook, and the deep welts left from the burns are visible creeping up from his elbow toward his shoulder and over the back of his neck on one side. Ron says that Charlie was on fire for so long that he shouldn't be alive, and it was only because he could get to the creek bed and submerge the rest of his body.
Hestia Jones was the one who finally reached him to put it out, says Ron, just before the green flash of a Death Eater's curse took her out. Ron's voice always wavers during that part of the story, and Neville knows it's because Ron killed the Death Eater who did it.
"Done!" Charlie says, sliding Neville's plate across the table to him. "Here, I'll wrap up so you can eat. S'not exactly an appetizing sight, I know."
"It's not so bad," Neville says, lying as he watches Charlie wind the scarf around his neck.
"I have mirrors in the house, Neville. I know what I look like now." Charlie grins.
Neville shrugs and sticks his fork into something green and leafy, frowning at it for a moment before taking a bite. The food is better than he expects and he gives Charlie a grateful grin before tucking into it.
"I've gotta give Trevor another round of potion after dinner," says Charlie, breaking the companionable silence between them. "You want to help me out with that one? You liked Herbology, right?"
"Uh huh," Neville says, and Charlie grins again.
"Yeah, I thought Ron said something about that," says Charlie. "Good then. I've got some hellebore that'll need to be cut and chopped just right so we can add it to the potion right before we give it to him."
"All right," says Neville. "Do you reckon he has a chance of making it?"
Charlie looks confident, and he waves his fork in the air as he speaks. "Of course he does. I'll look after him. You've got nothing to worry about."
Neville thinks that Charlie must be the first person he's met since Hagrid who didn't say, 'But it's only a toad'.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Charlie says that carving in the sitting room is a Muggle monk called St. Francis. He's got a few statues of St. Francis in other parts of the house, too. He was good with animals, Charlie says. He says he keeps the statues around for company.
I think I know how he feels.
~N
~@~@~@~
Charlie can't hear out of his left ear anymore, and Neville has taken to making sure Charlie's actually listening when he talks. During the first few days he'd been here, he often found himself asking questions that went unanswered. It had been embarrassing for him, and awkward, when he realized he was talking into Charlie's deaf ear. Charlie never seems to be embarrassed or awkward.
There are moments Neville wants to grab him and shake him and shout in his face, anything it takes to make Charlie acknowledge that there are people outside these walls dying every day. To force Charlie to realize that Neville has no idea where Ron, Harry and Hermione are and that it's driving him out of his mind. Then he wonders if maybe that's what Charlie's problem is: maybe he's gone mad already. Maybe something's wrong with Neville that he hasn't noticed it until now. He used to think he knew what madness looked like.
There's a statue of St. Francis sitting on the long, empty table in the dining room, all alone like an obscenely oversized centerpiece. Charlie is sitting in a chair facing the statue with Trevor's box in front of him. Charlie's holding an eyedropper in front of the toad's face, and they're patiently waiting for the toad to take the potion.
"We had an Ironbelly in Romania who wouldn't touch the pain potion he needed for a fractured wing," Charlie says, reaching into the box and gingerly stroking the base of Trevor's throat. "The trick is to get him to relax and feel comfortable with you. The Ironbelly liked being scratched with a big brush right behind his ear. Trevor here seems to like," he rubs his fingertip in circles against Trevor's throat, "this."
Trevor opens his mouth and Charlie lets two glistening blue drops of potion fall in.
"There. That wasn't so bad."
Trevor flails suddenly, his front legs shooting out to the sides and twitching, and Neville makes a sound like a frightened dog, an embarrassing sound that a man his age should never make. Not over a toad, anyway.
Charlie reaches out and squeezes Neville's shoulder. "S'all right," he says. "It'll pass. That happens sometimes."
Neville frowns. "He doesn't look good."
"He'll be okay," Charlie says, but when he raises his gaze from the box, he makes eye contact with St Francis and not Neville.
Neville watches this for a moment before speaking.
"Is that one new?" he asks. "I don't remember it when I got here."
"No," Charlie says, looking away with palpable reluctance. "No, he's been here a while." Then he grins and Neville realizes Charlie's hand is still on his arm.
It's absurd, but Neville wants to reach out and pull down that scarf and lick Charlie's neck. He squeezes his eyes shut instead.
"All right?" asks Charlie.
Neville can't answer him right away.
"Yeah," says Neville, finally opening his eyes. "I think I'm getting a little claustrophobic. That's all."
"Oh," Charlie says. "I, um… I don't get that way. It's safe in here."
Neville can feel the pads of Charlie's fingers digging into his skin and he gives Charlie a nervous smile. Charlie strokes Neville's shoulder with his thumb.
"You should stay inside," he says. "It's safe."
Neville's no longer sure that's true.
"Until Trevor's better," Charlie adds as an afterthought. He finally drops his hand, but Neville will swear he can still feel its warm imprint long into the night.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Sometimes this house is so small I can hardly breathe.
~ N
~@~@~@~
When Charlie gets out of the shower, he walks past Neville's room on the way to his own, his good side facing Neville's door. Neville pretends he doesn't notice the shimmering beads of water on Charlie's skin, the way they make the rare spaces between freckles blend together entirely. He's so busy pretending not to notice that it takes him nearly a minute to realize that Charlie has stopped in front of is door and is watching him.
"All right in there?" Charlie asks.
"Oh," says Neville. "Um, yeah. I was just… Just sitting here."
It's then that Neville notices the three tiny statues of St Francis lined up neatly on the edge of his dresser.
"Did you put those there?" asks Neville.
"Ah, yeah," says Charlie, turning to face Neville and rubbing the back of his neck as he looks up at the dresser. "I thought you could use the company."
Neville nods. St Francis is everywhere now, and there's no place in the house that will allow Neville to escape his gaze. When he dreams at night, he's starting to see St. Francis. And Charlie.
Mostly Charlie.
"You don't mind, do you?" Charlie asks, rearranging the statues a bit.
"Uh, no," Neville says, but he's too busy noticing the way Charlie's scars look like winding vines, climbing up his shoulder, blossoming across his neck. The scars aren't ugly when Neville sees them like that; they're beautiful. He blinks twice, then looks Charlie in the eye.
"Where do you get them all?" he asks.
Charlie just smiles the uneven smile of someone with a secret. Then he winks.
"Around," he says. "I should put some clothes on. S'freezing in here."
As he walks away, Neville watches the way the wet towel clings to Charlie's arse, and immediately he's uncomfortable. He grabs his wand to shut the door and fidgets in his too tight trousers before tearing them open and thrusting his hand inside.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
Trevor's dying. I can feel it. I don't know if Charlie doesn't want to tell me, or if he's just so bloody mad that he hasn't noticed. Those stupid statues are everywhere in this house now. He gets more every day, I think. They're just sitting there, gathering dust and watching me. I'm sick of being watched. No matter where I go in this house, there are eyes on me. Charlie's, I don't mind so much. He's a good man, even if he is a bit mad.
Maybe we all are these days. I miss my friends.
~ N
~@~@~@~
The first time Charlie kisses Neville, it's right after they've tried to give Trevor his potion. Tried is the operative word. Trevor won't take his potion tonight and Charlie says that next time they might try with a needle, like Muggles. Neville's eyes fill with tears and he feels like an idiot because he's twenty, not twelve, (why does he have to keep reminding himself of that?) and Charlie and St. Francis are watching him.
Charlie dips his head, the movement so slow and smooth that Neville hardly notices it until Charlie's lips are brushing across his. He feels small and soft and weak in contrast to Charlie, who's pressing against him now, hard and strong. Neville lifts up his arms when Charlie tugs at his shirt, trying to concentrate on Charlie's tongue sliding against his, trying so hard not to look awkward, that he stumbles as Charlie pulls the shirt off over his head. Charlie laughs and reaches out to grab Neville by the arms and pull him close.
Even Charlie's hands are strong, and Neville draws a brave breath against the ringing criticisms of inferiority playing over and over again in his head. It's too late to suck in his stomach, he reckons, and he stops thinking about it all together when Charlie dips down to catch Neville's nipple between his teeth.
"Brilliant," Neville breathes.
Charlie chuckles, his mouth vibrating warmly against Neville's skin as his hands roam over Neville's torso.
"Love touching you," Charlie murmurs against the hollow at the base of Neville's throat, his fingertips slipping inside the waistband of Neville's jeans. "Been dying to touch you, Nev."
"Uh huh," Neville says, and then he whimpers because Charlie is opening his jeans and shoving them down and - Oh, God.
Neville reaches for Charlie's hair, but Charlie keeps it closely cropped and there's nothing to hold onto as Charlie pushes him back against the table. But Neville doesn't care, because Charlie wants him. Staggering and tripping and making eager, desperate noises, that's how Charlie wants him. Charlie's hands are on his hips and Charlie's breath is hot on his cock and Neville's never even let himself think about something as brilliant as this. He lies back on the table, shivering as the gooseflesh rises all over his skin at the cold touch of smooth wood.
Neville spreads his arms out, feeling like some sort of living sacrifice as he looks up to see St. Francis staring down at him. But then Charlie's lips are on his cock, followed by Charlie's mouth, and it's warm and wet and - God, he can't think about anything else. Charlie's throat tightens around the head of Neville's prick and it takes all of Neville's willpower not to jerk his hips off the table and thrust for more. Instead, he raises his legs to wrap around Charlie's torso. Charlie holds on, stroking Neville's thighs with strong, rough hands while Neville squirms on the table.
When Charlie lets go, Neville is just about to come, and he gasps and pants and shudders to hold on, but it's all forgotten a second later as Charlie falls over him. Neville can't remember when Charlie took his own clothes off, but it doesn't seem to matter. Charlie, with scars and burns and freckles that melt away around the edges of his disfigured shoulder, is gorgeous, and Neville gives him a grin to match Charlie's own.
Charlie slides a finger inside Neville, a wet, slippery finger that can only be that way because of magic, and Neville doesn't know anything about any of this. But he knows that he likes it a whole lot. This isn't his first time, but Neville quickly decides that inexperienced fumbling doesn't count anymore. Only Charlie counts. And then there are two fingers, and then the head of Charlie's cock, and Charlie is making this face that makes Neville's insides spin and leap and then he's coming all over his belly as Charlie thrusts inside him.
"Sorry," Neville says through a hitching breath. "Sorry."
"Not sorry," Charlie says with a grunt, burying his face in Neville's shoulder. "Perfect. S'all perfect. Do you feel that?" He pulls out slowly and thrusts inside again and Neville thinks that Charlie must be touching every last part of him all at once. "Perfect."
Neville raises his arms and wraps them around Charlie's back. He looks up at St. Francis with a ridiculous smile on his face and, for just a moment, the whole world is right.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
I don't care if Charlie has lost his mind. That shag was amazing.
~ N
~@~@~@~
Charlie stands at the windowsill, his hands digging into St. Francis's stiff stone shoulders as he stares blankly ahead of him. The only thing outside that window is a high brick wall.
"I did everything I could," he says without looking back at Neville.
"Oh." Neville doesn't know what to say to that. He should have seen this coming. When Bellatrix cast Crucio on Trevor, he should have seen it coming. How could a toad survive that, he wonders?
"I thought I could save him," Charlie says.
"I know," says Neville. "I thought you could, too." He wants to cry, but his pride won't let him. Then he hears a sound cutting through the silence, hoarse and shallow and broken, and he realizes that Charlie is crying enough for both of them.
Neville crosses the room and presses his hand to Charlie's back. If he splays his fingers, he can feel the smooth, healthy skin beneath his thumb while his little finger slides into the deep groove of Charlie's scars. Charlie shivers.
"It's gonna be lonely in this house now," he says quietly. "Just the two of us and Francis. He needs us now, you know. He's not going to take this well."
Neville presses his forehead to Charlie's back.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
I was lying before. I do care. I don't want to see him like this anymore.
I miss Trevor.
Stupid toad.
~ N
~@~@~@~
If someone would ask – and Neville's sure that they never will, since no one seems to know, or care, that he's here – Neville would tell them he has no idea why he stays on. What he came for is gone, and the house's initial hospitality has cracked and shattered all around him, revealing the rotten walls beneath the façade. But he stays because Charlie's bed is warm, and Charlie's mouth on his cock is brilliant, and St. Francis in his many incarnations needs dusting. He stays because he's not so sure Charlie can take care of himself anymore.
It's become worse since he arrived; he knows that. He wonders sometimes if it's him. Maybe it's not the Lestranges, or the war, or any of those other things that make people go mad. Maybe it's Neville.
He presses his head back against the wall and wonders if Harry has killed Voldemort yet. Or if Voldemort has killed Harry. He just wants it to be over. He wants to step out into the sunshine and into freedom with Charlie, even though he can't imagine Charlie wanting him in the real world. In a world where he has a choice between Neville and everyone else. In a world where he might be sane again.
"Look what I've found!" Charlie says, his grin brighter than Neville's seen it in days.
He's holding up a shoebox, the one Trevor arrived in, and a small, grey mouse is skidding from side to side within it. Neville wants to hate Charlie when he sees this. This is Trevor's shoebox, not a home for some dirty little mouse.
"He came to visit us," Charlie said. "So we won't be so lonely anymore. So Francis will have someone to look after."
Neville frowns. "Charlie," he asks, finally, after all the months or weeks or days he's been staying here, "what are you doing here? In this house?"
Charlie grins and sets the shoebox down on the table, in the middle of a horseshoe of St. Francis statues.
"Where are those coming from?" Neville asks, and he can hear a note of hysteria in his own voice.
Charlie doesn't answer, he just strolls across the room toward Neville, and Neville backs up until he bumps the windowsill, one tiny, ceramic St. Francis tumbling to the ground and shattering. Charlie doesn't even look down. He's standing in front of Neville now, so close that Neville can swear he feels Charlie's heart beating against his chest.
"Charlie," Neville says, pleadingly. "Charlie."
Charlie smirks, drawing one finger down Neville's cheek, then dropping to his knees. Shards of St. Francis crunch beneath Charlie's knees against the wooden floor.
Neville grips the windowsill behind him and his eyes flutter shut, and Charlie's mouth swallows the entire world.
~@~@~@~
Dear Journal,
This house is all wrong. I don't know what I'm doing here. Sometimes I don't recognize Charlie at all. Sometimes I think that I don't ever want to see him again.
~N
~@~@~@~
"We've made some progress today," the medi-witch says in a low, soothing voice.
Charlie rubs his upper arms. He's been hugging himself out here in the hall, waiting for her to appear, for what seems like hours. When he glances at the clock on the wall, he sees that it's only been 20 minutes. Sometimes St. Mungo's makes him lose all sense of time.
"Yeah?" he says. He hates it when they talk down to him, and that's what she's doing. 'We' haven't made any progress at all, Charlie thinks.
"A little bit," she says, and Charlie can tell she's trying to be kind, so he doesn't complain.
"Has he written any more in the journal?" Charlie asks.
By the way she lowers her eyes, he can tell that the answer is yes.
"I want to read it," he says.
"Mr. Weasley, I'm not sure… Progress is defined in many different ways."
"I want to read it," Charlie says again, and he clenches his jaw to keep his temper in check. It's not their fault, after all.
The medi-witch sighs. "One moment," she says, and she disappears behind a curtain, emerging a moment later with the journal. "Remember, this doesn't necessarily mean anything. It's not to be taken literally."
Charlie snatches the journal out of her hands and opens to the latest entry.
Dear Journal,
This house is all wrong. I don't know what I'm doing here. Sometimes I don't recognize Charlie at all. Sometimes I think that I don't ever want to see him again.
~N
Charlie feels cold. This is what they call progress? This? He's not ashamed when they show him the entries that describe his scars – the ones he keeps hidden beneath the heavy scarf – in graphic detail. He even feels a small flare of pride when the embarrassed medi-witch hands him the entry calling Charlie a brilliant shag. But this, this feels like rejection and it's personal and he thinks that it's none of their business. He thinks that some things should stay just between Charlie and Neville. But nothing has stayed just between them for months now.
The medi-witch gently takes the journal from his hands.
"You have to understand," she says, "Cruciatus damaged patients are highly unpredictable. Tomorrow might be better."
"I'd like to see him now," Charlie says dully, cutting her off.
"Of course."
Charlie follows her down the corridor, barely listening to her nervous small talk, and he waits patiently for her to pull back the curtain. As soon as he can see Neville, he doesn't wait for the medi-witch's permission. Instead, he ignores her as he brushes past, dropping down in the chair beside Neville's bed and resting his elbows on his knees.
"Hey," he says, and his grin is genuine. He's never been able to look at Neville and not grin. "You've still got it, yeah?"
He nods to the statue Neville sits clutching in both hands. It's a small, wooden carving of St. Francis that Charlie got off a Muggle peddler in Romania years ago. He'd thought it was neat at the time – symbolic of someone who got on with creatures as well as Charlie did. Neville seemed taken with it from the first time he saw it. After the attack, when it became clear they weren't going to let Charlie take care of Neville on his own, Charlie couldn't leave St. Mungo's without knowing there was someone there to watch over Neville for him. Even if it was just a ridiculous Muggle carving.
"Careful with that," he says, as he starts to unwind his scarf. St. Francis's head has lost its glossy finish on one side where Neville compulsively rubs it with his thumb. "S'one of a kind, you know."
Charlie sets the scarf over the arm of the chair, and reaches for the coffee the medi-witch has brought. He'll spend the afternoon pretending that Neville's answering his questions and chattering away, and for three short hours today, he'll forget that Neville's sitting in a hospital bed across the hall from Neville's parents.
And tonight he'll go home and take care of Trevor and pretend that everything's just as it should be while Neville stays in his bed and writes in his journal. Sometimes Neville writes about things that really happened. Usually, he doesn't. He doesn't live with Charlie anymore, or even at St. Mungo's. Now Neville lives in some house in his head that Charlie's never seen, in some fractured version of a world that didn't last for long enough, and Charlie… Charlie's still here.
And also,
el_em_en_oh_pee wrote that amazing Percy/Oliver, secure in his disbelief; for me! So if you haven't read that yet, go! Now! It's incredible!!
