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As Harry eyed Neville wielding the sword of Godric Gryffindor high above his head, and slashing through that damn snake in one clean cut, Harry knew at that very moment one very important fact; he had to hit that. That thought got him through the rest of the battle.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t had a chance since the battle, not since the war ended. Here he was, lonely on a Saturday night (Harry Potter? Lonely? Even he didn’t know why), sitting at the bar of the Leaky Cauldron downing yet another shot of firewhisky.
That’s when Neville walked in.
He looked just as rugged as he had during the battle, though obviously was no longer covered in grime and dirt, but just as disheveled. Through the haze of the firewhisky, Harry had that same thought again. He had to hit that .
Neville, unaware of Harry’s less than decent thoughts, smiled at him and waved, and Harry beckoned him over with a lazy arm. Neville sat next to him ordering some fruity little drink, and Harry leaned against the bar top, grinning at the boy—no—the man. Neville was a man now. Harry could see it in his eyes, in the light stubble on his chin. Aphrodite had been kind to him.
They hadn’t talked since the battle, it’d been…months? Harry couldn’t remember over the faint buzzing taking over his thoughts. He knew one thing for certain though. He had to hit that . He leaned into Neville and said something cheeky—he was sure, because Neville’s face went slightly red and he laughed. Harry didn’t remember what he’d said, but it must’ve been good.
It must’ve been really good because before Harry knew it, they were stumbling out of the bar with Neville’s arm holding him up as they wobbled onto the sidewalk, and he was soon apparated away.
They arrived in front of Harry’s flat—had he given Neville the address? He didn’t remember. Harry handed Neville his keys, he couldn’t imagine trying to fumble with the lock just for it to not open because he’d chosen the wrong key. Neville let them in.
Neville guided Harry through the door, shrugging off his own coat after he closed the door. Harry stumbled over to the couch, kicking his shoes off when he landed, bouncing slightly on the cushions.
Neville stood awkwardly by the doorway, rocking on his heels, taking in the smallness of Harry’s flat. Harry told him to come on in, make himself at home. If he wanted to, y’know? Neville obliged, Harry told him to help himself to the fridge. Neville didn’t.
They were both a bit tipsy, Neville maybe even more than Harry, so he settled on the couch next to Harry, and for some reason, Harry has a muggle television, and he switches it on. The two of them sat in a comfortable silence, watching some bright colored kids’ show, which was weird because it was the middle of the night.
Harry, after a while, glanced at Neville from the corner of his eye. Damn. Yeah. Right. I really need to hit that . Like really. Neville noticed his sustained gaze.
“Harry?”
“Neville.” A pause. Harry swallowed, the faint taste of firewhisky lingering on his tongue. “Have I ever told you how…you’ve um…grown into your…features?”
Neville looked at him, fully, a bit surprised, a bit incredulous even. He shakes his head after he fully processes what Harry said. “No, no one has,” He said, a bit shy.
“I’m a lucky man to be the first one to tell you,” Harry said, and Neville looked even more taken aback, thay same blush creeping from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
“W-what?” Neville stuttered.
“Yeah. Yeah, I mean it,” Harry nodded, “I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you but…you haven’t changed much . You still look…the same,” He silently hoped Neville wouldn’t take that the wrong way. Harry leaned in, his hand creeping to Neville’s thigh.
Neville’s gaze shot to Harry’s hand, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away or swat his hand. He kind of just sat there, face still flushed and focusing his gaze on anywhere but Harry’s eyes .
He’s shy , Harry realized, but his hand creeped higher, brushing just at the top of Neville’s thigh, the place that connected to his hip.
“No one’s ever told you?” Harry asked coyly, and Neville shook his head, swallowing thickly.
“No. I uh—I don’t think it’s a popular sentiment,”
Harry shook his head, a soft laugh. “Should be,” He said simply.
Gods, look at him. I need to hit that . Then he realized. This was his chance. Neville’s here , in Harry’s flat, sitting on Harry’s couch, his thigh under Harry’s reverent hand.
So, Harry takes the chance. His hand travels from Neville’s thigh up to properly grip his hip. He wouldn’t try to even brush the impressive bulge beneath Neville’s jeans just yet. Just in case. Neville’s breath hitched, but still, he didn’t move to push Harry away, he didn’t say anything to deter him. He simply sat there, watching as Harry fondled him.
Harry was emboldened by Neville’s lack of resistance, leaning in more, his breath mingling with Neville’s a soft, fruity scent.
Harry plucked his glasses from his nose and tossed them to who knows where, hearing the faint clatter of the metal against the hardwood floor somewhere.
I need to hit that . Harry repeated to himself. All in his head, of course.
His hand trailed up Neville’s waist, to his shoulders, settling on the nape of his neck. Harry just…looked at Neville for a moment. It was as if he was silently asking, ‘ do you want this?’ He wouldn’t dare voice it outloud, even now. Luckily, it seemed Neville understood and nodded, swallowing again.
Harry’s eyes watched the way his throat bobbed, wishing he could just sink his teeth into the expanse, but his stomach twisted and the way his lungs suddenly felt void of air told him he could skip all that, get straight to it.
So he leaned in, capturing Neville’s mouth with his own. Harry moaned at the feeling of Neville’s lips on his, slightly slick and tasting even more of that fruity drink he’d left half-full on the bar top. They were so warm , and they pressed back so insistently, almost immediately.
Harry couldn’t believe it. Well, he could believe it, but he also couldn’t. He was drunk. Perhaps he was imagining all this. Maybe he was still at the bar, dozing off with his face pressed into the bartop, drooling onto the unfinished wood as he dreamed of ravaging Neville.
But when Neville’s hands found Harry’s waist, pulling him closer, nails digging into his sides, Harry fully believed that this was real. There was no way it wasn’t.
He eagerly climbed into Neville’s lap, feeling that the large, impressive bulge beneath Neville’s jeans was, in fact, stiff, hard. Harry moaned into Neville’s mouth again, pressing own clothed hardness against Neville’s. The man below him keened in kind, his head tilting against the back of the couch, his hands tightening around Harry’s waist.
Harry followed Neville’s lips, shifting against so slightly yet so deliciously, his lips slick with—not alcohol anymore, but with Neville . Harry pressed tongue against Neville’s lips, parting them as they obliged so eagerly.
Harry’s hands moved from their place at Neville’s neck, tangling in the thick, wavy hair, twisting and tugging at the strands.
It seemed Neville couldn’t take this teasing anymore, so he grabbed Harry firmly, pressing him back against the cushions. Harry’s head rested just against the armrest. Neville’s hips were still flush against Harry's, his hardness pressing so insistently against his. Harry wanted this, he wanted it so badly.
He needed to hit that. A sentiment he’d been repeating to himself since the battle. And apparently, Neville wanted to hit that , too.
Harry, by now, didn’t really believe he’d be the one to bend the other over his couch or his twin sized mattress, but he didn’t mind the thought of Neville doing that to him . However he could get it, he was going to take it.
So, when Neville’s hands pawed at Harry’s waistband, fumbled with the button and struggled with the zipper, Harry knew , oh yes, he was going to hit that tonight. One way or another.