For: Quidditch League Round 8

Position: Captain

Team: Puddlemere

Pairing: Neville/Hannah

Note: Liza is fab, worship here please xxxxx

Neville Longbottom wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes. His wife will tell you that. They never talk about it - not in the light of day - but sometimes she will wake to the cold draught tickling her back and turn, already knowing he will not be there, to find the bed empty. On those nights, fewer now than when she first crawled into bed with him, she is never far behind.

Tonight, he is slumped at the kitchen table. There is a half empty cup of tea in front of him - how long has he been awake? - and he's sitting with his head in his hands.

"Neville?" She can never get used to the feeling of breaking a night's silence. It feels blasphemous somehow, like screaming obscenities in a church.

He looks up, unsurprised to find her in the doorway. "Go back to bed, Han."

"Only if you'll come with me."

He smiles, but it's a sad smile. "Can't sleep," he says. He drops his hands to the table with a thump.

"Another nightmare?" She walks slowly towards the table, as if moving too quickly will scare the honesty out of him. He closes his eyes for a second.

"Yeah." He laughs then, a self-deprecating chuckle. "Bloody pathetic, me. Nobody else has nightmares after all these years, do they?"

"Don't be stupid, Neville. Of course they do," she says, almost-hotly. He gapes for a second. "I'm sorry. It's just - I hate seeing you like this. And I hate you thinking you're alone in this."

His hand finds hers where it is perched on the back of the chair she still hasn't quite made it to. His fingers are warm, and she is suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to drag him back to bed and curl up with him from top to toe. "I love you, you know," he says. "For all the things you say. And do. They're always the right thing. Somehow."

"Miraculously," she says, smirking. "Come back to bed. I'll keep you safe."

He laughs again, shaking his head. "Fine, come on then. But I get to be the little spoon."

"Deal," she laughs, and then she is dragging him towards their bedroom by their entwined fingertips, their bare feet slapping against the wooden floor. The bed is warm and soft when she falls into it again, much like Neville's lips on the back of her neck.

"Thought I was the little spoon," he remarks, sliding in behind her, knees tucked into hers.

"What are they about?" Hannah blurts. She feels him go rigid, and then relax again. "The nightmares." She twists around so that she can see his face. His mouth is a thin, worried line. "Am I in them?"

"No," he croaks, then clears his throat. Again, louder, more clearly, he says, "No."

She looks down to where his arm is wrapped around her and dances her fingers across his wrist. "I should be. I should just burst in and save you. Every time."

A smile plays on his lips for just a second. "Inferi," he confesses finally, that small smile falling from his face as he does. "It's always the same thing. Always the same people."

She is silent for a moment. Wondering, though she is certain she knows. "Who?" she whispers, just low enough that if he doesn't answer she can pretend he didn't hear. And he doesn't - for just a few beats of silence that stretch on and on. She listens to his breathing with closed eyes, savouring the warmth of his body so close to her.

And then: "Mum. Dad." Yes, she had expected this. "And Colin."

At this, she turns around to meet his eyes. His face is only barest outlines in the dark, but she can see his lip tremble slightly. "Colin?"

"Colin Creevey. Little kid with a camera? He was mad about Harry, back in school," Neville says shakily. "I carried his body back to the Great Hall that night."

"I remember him," Hannah says softly. And she does; boundless energy and smiles that knew no walls. "He was nice." She shuffles around in the bed so that she is facing him. With a quick, chaste kiss to the lips, she smiles. "He followed Harry around like a lost puppy."

"Mental kid, he was. Think he loved that camera more than his own family." He breathes a quiet laugh. "He was sixteen."

"Why have you never told me this?" Her head slots in under his chin and her words are muffled in his chest. "You hardly ever talk about that night. Maybe it'd help."

"Maybe," he agrees. "Another time, Han. Not tonight." He kisses the top of her head. She feels the skin under his lips tingle, even after all this time. "This is nice though, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she says, smiling sleepily into his pyjama top. "It is."

They are quiet for a few moments, as the night settles around them. Neville's arm is warm and heavy and safe, a security blanket. She likes to think her small body pressed against his feels much the same to him. She wants to be security. Wants him to feel warm and loved and safe.

"I'd never let anyone hurt you, you know," she whispers. "No inferi or vampires or werewolves or Blacks. They'd have to go through me first."

"You're barely five foot," Neville chuckles. His chest rumbles. "But I appreciate the sentiment."

"Small, but powerful," she says teasingly, a warning of sorts. "Like some other things I could mention…"

"Dirty girl," he scolds, squeezing her closer.

"Dirty boy," she retorts. "I was talking about my wand. What were you talking about?"

"You're an absolute minx, Hannah Longbottom," Neville says, pulling back just enough that he can find her lips with his own. "Don't think I don't know exactly what you're like."

"Me?" she says, mock-surprised. "I just want to cuddle with my husband and go to sleep. Is that so wrong?"

"Are you sure that's all you want?" Neville asks. His voice is low, tinged with a familiar huskiness that sends shivers through Hannah's body.

"Not really, no," she breathes, and captures him in another kiss, her hands winding up to tangle in his hair.

Neville Longbottom wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes. His wife will tell you that. He has nightmares, you see, but it's okay. Because Neville Longbottom's wife also wakes up in the middle of the night, and somehow makes everything okay.