Neville thought funerals were rather pointless. They certainly
did nothing for the dead; why would a corpse care if a crowd of people dressed
in black gathered in its honour? Only ghosts could attend their own funerals,
but there'd be no ghosts today. Heroes don't fear death, after all.
Some say the rites are for those left behind, but Neville couldn't think of
anything less desirable than mourning publicly. Here, he wouldn't wail and cry
and, in fact, felt very little at all. The Weasleys pressed in on him from all
sides, protecting him from the reporters or maybe expecting him to break down at
any moment, but Neville just stared off into space, forcing himself to blink
from time-to-time because that was what he was expected to do.
A firm hand settled on the small of his back and gently nudged him forward,
the Red Sea of Weasleys parting, giving him room. Feeling like sinew and bone
had been replaced with a complicated system of pulleys and levers, Neville
mechanically threw the Ever-Preserved Rose onto the coffin, listlessly staring
at its polished surface. He could play this part because it wasn't Harry in
there. It was all some sort of mistake, a cosmic joke played on the ultimate
loser, because Harry fulfilled that damned prophesy and vanquished Voldemort and
he was supposed to have had a happy, long life. Because heroes die gloriously in
battle. Because they don't slip on puddles of water in bathrooms after calling
to their lovers to join them. Because Harry was larger than life and there was
no fucking way he could fit in a tiny pine box. The box simply must be empty.
Neville stared at the red splotch on top of glossy wood and found it all a
little silly. The strong hand on his back again, Neville let himself be led
away, not bothering to glance over his shoulder as he went.
Afterwards, he'd been coaxed back to the Burrow by Hermione, whose
tear-tracks still stained her face. Neville considered mentioning how blotchy
her cheeks were, but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded and Hermione
vaguely patted his hand in reply. Seated around the kitchen table, Neville
half-listened as they shared stories about Harry -- only happy ones because of
some unwritten rule about what stories are safe when someone has passed.
A strangled laugh escaped from his throat, drawing stares in his direction,
but he didn't explain a thing. He couldn't tell them how stupid the idea of
passing was, like life is some sort of test and death is the ultimate N.E.W.T.
He couldn't tell them the last happy memory he and Harry made, sweaty and
clutching each other, Harry's breathy moans of "love you, love you"
growing louder and louder until they came together. How Harry had pulled away,
sticky and grinning, and ran off to their shower.
The next memory, Neville knew, wasn't happy anymore.
Charlie poured them all shots of Firewhiskey and the others drank to Harry
and to Bill and to everyone else they'd lost. Neville just drank because it was
there and it made the edges of consciousness fuzzy. Each shot burned as it
travelled down his throat and Neville wondered if his insides might rust.
Ron, who buried his face in Hermione's hair, was out first. He'd never been
able to hold his liquor and was regularly drunk under the table by everyone,
even the girls. Arms slung over Ginny and Hermione's shoulders, Ron slurred his
farewells, occasionally punctuating the words with a giggle or a sob. The twins
escorted Percy out next, making sure he was sober enough to Floo home, leaving
Charlie and Neville alone. The two of them finished the bottle.
For Neville, who'd already been walking around in a stupor, the whiskey
caused life to take on a distinctly dream-like quality. Things would fade to
grey, then he'd catch a snatch of Charlie talking about new Finnish Leatherwing
he was breaking in. Neville nodded, then slumped a bit further in his chair, and
fazed out again. The next time, there was a hand on his knee, Charlie nervously
asking, "I can make you feel better for a little while, if you want. C-can
I help?" and Neville smiled vaguely, nodded again, and patted Charlie's
hand. He closed his eyes for a minute, opening them when he felt warm lips cover
his own. Neville wondered if Harry would mind because being drunk certainly
wasn't an excuse for this, but Charlie was so warm and Neville thought he might
want to be warm, too.
Neville finally made a sound when Charlie slipped a hand under his shirt,
feeling fingers scrape his skin. His body wasn't like Harry's (actually, it was
closer to Neville's own body -- solid and dependable), but his hands were the
hands of an athlete, covered in calluses, fingers strong and nimble. A
Seeker's hands, Neville realised as he closed his eyes and pretended Charlie
wasn't Charlie. Those fingers deftly undid the clasps of his robes, the sturdy
body slid between Neville's legs, parting them in the process, and Charlie's
mouth -- which was as warm as the rest of him -- coaxed Neville to hardness.
Charlie's hands were now on Neville's legs, as he sucked slowly, almost
tenderly, and Neville tangled his hands in hair that was too short and too
bright, but he was drunk and numb, so he easily imagined it was messy and dark.
Neville moved his hips to meet Charlie's mouth over and over, then he was coming
and shouting Harry's name. Charlie didn't seem to mind and even pushed Neville's
hands away from the waistband of the Muggle jeans he'd changed into, but he
insisted because it was polite and he thought his joints could remember up and
down. Charlie buried his face in Neville's shoulder, letting out little moans
and cries, and came all over Neville's hand.
Afterwards, Charlie admitted, "I've never done that in my parents'
kitchen." Neville smiled because he knew that was a joke, then excused
himself so he could wash up, thinking there might be puddles on the floor.