Neville
It had been five days since Dahlia's episode in the greenhouse and they hadn't convened but a few words about it. Neville supposed that would be the extent of it too. That they would utter it no more. It seemed like they wouldn't be speaking about anything that polluted him.
In those five days Neville had woken up twice. Sickened in the dead of night, horrored by the memory of her crying.
But they wouldn't be talking about it.
She hadn't divulged anything, not how her first and second potions had gone, not how her panic attacks were faring, her consultation with Pomfrey. None of it. She hadn't brought any of it up with Dean or Hermione. Hadn't told them what happened after Neville requested privacy. Nothing. Dahlia was behaving as though it never occurred, like her excruciating sobs didn't leave stains on the walls of the greenhouse.
And Neville wasn't surprised.
Dahlia was lukewarm with him again, the precious moments of that night succumbing to rigor mortis.
He could still see it, still hear it. Her panic. Trapped in the museum.
But Dahlia?
She gave the implication that it was a thing of ancient past. As if she has not thought upon it in years.
Neville would mention his overwhelming care if he didn't think that it would bother her, but he knew that it would. His presence alone seemed to ruffle her and he opted to try and turn a blind eye to it all, to let her have space and time on the subject that he still didn't understand.
In all of the mysteries of Dahlia, one matter Neville deemed to have an assured knowledge on was how she would have dealt with Patrick and his scene, but Neville was wrong. He thought that she would be standoffish, for Patrick was the one that threatened their immunity. Instead, they appeared to have made up in record time. Maybe it was because he didn't know all the details, that it was easier for Dahlia to go forward with someone that was ignorant to her suffering. Or maybe she was falling for him, granting him a honeymoon pardon.
It was all upside down.
Even now, the simple act of walking down the hallway, felt off.
They were hidden in a deserted, mid-morning corridor.
Dahlia would routinely have her arm locked into the crook of his.
But she didn't.
On peaceful weekend leisures, they would usually be filling the gothic corridors with giggles.
But they weren't.
They were walking like strangers. Too far away for talking.
Wearing identical black Hogwarts shirts, taking similar strides, they trekked to the Hufflepuff common room to accompany Nathen and his friends to their first Hufflepuff quidditch match, which was against Ravenclaw.
Dahlia was traipsing an arm's length from him, an expressionless expression about her. Aloof. Until her eyes sparked and a gasp parted her mouth.
She stopped in her tracks and began groping her jean and coat pockets for something she must have forgotten.
Neville's steps faded and he looked back at her. "What?" He asked.
She glanced up at him fleetly, then sighed when every one of her pockets had been touched. "I forgot the bloody face paint palette... I promised Nate that I would bring it." Dahlia complained, but was already turning back down the corridor they had just come from. "I'll meet you at the Hufflepuff entrance, I have to run back to my dorm!"
YOU ARE READING
When the Stars Align (Neville Longbottom)
Hayran Kurgu'Before he could give it another thought, Dahlia had leaned up, kissing desperately close to his lips, the corners essentially overlapping. It was deep, lasting, her hands had found his neck, her fingertips grazing over his jaw. He leaned his head d...
