The Notebook

That's right, a stab at Harry Potter fanfiction. And I know I said it was sacrilegious and I'd never to it, but I reread HP 7 (again...) and realized how much I actually love Neville (again) and decided to spread it around.

Oh, and if you're getting Nicholas Sparks vibes, nicely done—it was semi-inspired by the movie (which is decent with a beautiful last five minutes)—but no, it's not quite what you're thinking. Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter.

There's a soft drizzle falling across the roof of Saint Mungo's, not so much rain as a mist that's grown tangible. He feels its brush against his face, the air dragging at his robes like the hands of ghosts as he makes his way up the steps. Under his robes, where it's safe from the half-rain, he keeps a tight grip on a small book, bound in beautiful silver silk.

His face is downturned; long, wild hair hangs across his eyes. It's obvious he's grown up handsome—surprising, to be honest, almost everyone—but at the same time, something's gone missing from his face over the last year or so. An infinite solemnity has taken root in his expression, his eyes flat and inexplicably darker without their hopeful and once-perpetual sparkle. There's only a shadow of the little eleven-year-old boy he used to be left in this face, but it's not because the baby fat's gone from his cheeks, replaced by faint stubble. Rarely, if ever, does the young man smile any more.

Dark-robed and dark-haired, he stands out like a spot of mould on white bread as he trudges down the hallway. A red-haired receptionist who was probably gorgeous thirty years ago looks up at him as he stops in front of her desk.

"Good morning, Neville," she says fondly. "Here for visiting hours?"

Mr. Longbottom nods, a faint incline of his head, and she smiles at him. "Go right on up, dear," she offers, waving absently towards the stairs. He knows where to go; he's had years of experience. "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

"Thanks," he says. Even his voice is deeper, rougher. The receptionist knows it: she's watched him change as much as anyone. Lots of people at Saint Mungo's know Neville Longbottom, but not from him killing Nagini four years ago, or because he's friends with Harry Potter. They knew Neville long before that.

The receptionist looks down to her paperwork again as she finishes speaking, but as Neville trudges past, she sneaks a furtive glance that turns into a stare, watching him make his way up the flight of stairs. He looks so sad, she thinks, not for the first time, but knows why well enough. Poor boy, she thinks, like she does this time every day. He's very brave, and in a way he always has been, but three broken people are quite a lot for anyone to love.

The healer on duty, a new worker on this floor, doesn't recognize him as he summits the stairs, turns down the hallway. "Hi," she chirps, beaming widely at him, because nurses are nothing if not paid to be cheerful. "Are you here visiting someone?"

He looks up, almost startled. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she feels self-conscious as she meets his gaze. There's something flashing in his eyes, something dark and raw, and the nurse feels suddenly invasive, even when all she did was to say hello.

"Fourth floor, Spell-Damage Ward. Room 4-G," he recites quietly. "Is she there?"

"Erm…" She ruffles hurriedly through paperwork, before nodding, flashing him a quick but cautious smile. "Yes, she's right there, and awake." Her eyes fall timidly to the medicines she'd been measuring out a moment ago, not daring to meet his gaze again. "You can go right in," she rambles nervously, "she's, um, she seems very good today."

"Thank you," he says softly, gratefully, but all the same, she doesn't look up again until he's gone.

Like every single day, he hesitates outside the hospital room: not because he's afraid, but for the exact opposite reason. The hope's beginning to swell up inside him, a wish that he knows is stupid and that he doesn't dare voice aloud. Every day, every single effing day, he has to stop himself, because as he hesitates just before her door…

Maybe, this time, maybe if he turns the corner and opens the door, she'll open her eyes and smile at him, and before he can say hello, she'll say, "Hello, Neville," in that funny, blithe way of hers and there'll be recognition in her eyes this time, she'll know, and he'll say, "Hello, sunshine," and she'll beam, and murmur, "I missed you…"—

With difficulty, he cuts the thought off. No, he reminds himself, don't even think it, and he opens the door…

She's sitting up, her eyes wide and distant as she stares off at the white wall. He follows her gaze for a moment, but she's somewhere he can't follow, seeing something only she can see. As he closes the door with a soft shick, she glances up at him.

"Oh," she says. "Hello." She smiles at him.

It's the wrong smile.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He tries to crack a grin. His lips twitch upward slightly, he thinks. It's the best he can do, with his heart aching like someone just ripped it out of his chest, letting it hemorrhage on his ribs, and flung in onto a field of broken glass.

Damn it, he thinks, because he hoped anyway.

"My name's Neville," he says.

She stares at him, smiling lopsidedly. "I think I know you," she murmurs slowly.

His heart's better, instantly, it swells like a balloon inside him—

"Weren't you here yesterday?"

The pain, again. Broken glass might hurt less. Clearing his throat, because a rock's materialized inside it, he nods. "Yeah," he admits. "I was."

"I thought you looked familiar," she agrees happily. There's a pause, while he stares at her, drinking her in—she smiles back, looking slightly bemused—and then she wonders, "Why are you here?"

"Visiting," he replies. "I'm… I'm a friend of yours."

"Oh," she says. "That's very kind of you. I don't have many friends."

His mouth spasms, what's supposed to sound like a laugh and ends up coming out more like a muted, strangled sob. He hates how that's what she remembers, that's what was rooted deeply enough in her head to stick, when there are so many people wishing, hoping, praying for her and a little bit for him too. "Well," he murmurs, "you've got me."

"That's sweet," she mumbles absently. "Thank you." She pauses, glancing around, and then inquires, "Where am I?"

He doesn't need to stop and put together a story for her. This is a lie he's told too many times to count. "You've been sick," he rattles off. "You're in the hospital for a little while, just until you get better."

She stops, processing this, chewing on the inside of her lip like she does when she's thinking. "Am I very sick?"

"No," he blurts, unable to help it. "They say you're doing very well. You'll be better really soon."

She beams. "Oh," she says. "That's good."

Good, echoes his mind, no, good is not what it is, it's a lie, and it's horrible, it's effing disgusting what they did to you… but he nods, with some effort. Her eyes move slowly, carefully across his face, and she's got a funny look on her face, a slightly unfocused look, as if she's trying to pin down a thought and can't quite catch hold of it…

And then they drop to the slight bulge in his pocket, sparking as they fall on a gleam of beautiful gray silk. "What's that?" she asks.

He glances down, and then pulls out the object, holding it up for her inspection. Neither is stupid enough to state the obvious—oh, it's a notebook—and after a moment she queries, "What have you written in it?"

"It's not mine," he corrects quickly. He holds the book oddly, gingerly, like he's afraid it'll crumble in his hands. Her jaw drops slightly.

"Did you take it?"

"No," he protests, going slightly red as he fumbles for an explanation. "I… it belongs to a friend of mine. She's lending it to me."

"I see." She nods, accepting the explanation. "What's your friend written in it?"

When he doesn't reply, she continues hurriedly. "I'm sorry," she says. "That's rather nosy of me, isn't it? I shouldn't have asked; you don't have to tell m—"

"No," he interrupts, cutting her off. His eyes are glued to the book, and he runs a finger along the spine absently. "My friend…" he explains slowly, "she… she's unusual. She sees things—creatures—that other people don't always notice, and she writes them down in here, notes and pictures and plans for trips so she can go find them and prove they're real. She… she sort of believes in a lot of things some people don't, and it's her way to try and convince them to believe her too. She does that a lot, sometimes—or she used to, anyway."

The girl frowns slowly. "Isn't that hard?" she asks. "People… I mean, they can be quite mean sometimes, when people are different."

As she watches, half-puzzled and half concerned, the man swallows hard. "I think it was hard for her," he admits, tracing his finger across the book's cover. There's a raven embroidered into the silk, ever so faintly lighter than the background, and his finger drifts delicately across the span of its wings. "But she really believed it, you know? It was just part of who she was. And she was one of the best people I knew, because she never let people change her mind about what she believed. She was really…"

He breaks off abruptly, turning away from her for a moment, and when he swipes the sleeve of his robe across his eyes, she looks away tactfully. "Really brave," he finishes, his voice slightly thick.

"She sounds like it," the girl replied softly. She hesitates, more for him than for herself, and when he seems to have composed himself a little bit, she prompts, "So, why did you bring the book?"

"I… um," he begins hesitantly, ducking his head and feigning brushing the hair from his eyes. "It's a little stupid," he admits, with a slight laugh. "I was going to read to you, if you wanted."

She presses her lips together, smiles. "I'd like that," she says. "That'd be very nice."

He grins and swallows, looking down at the notebook. His fingers trace along its side until he reaches a page that's carefully marked, the dogeared corner folded down. He opens to a page that he could recite in his sleep, a page marked with diagrams and lines of meticulous details all copied out in graceful, flowing cursive. The paper is blotched in some places, and so well-worn it's taken on a soft, fuzzy quality, but he barely touches it as he skims over the words with a thick finger. Raw tenderness flickers instantaneously on his face like a flash from a broken lightbulb. Next to him, Luna waits, hands folded, eyes bright, expectant, and completely, heartbreakingly blank.

He takes a deep breath.

"The Crumple-Horned Snorkack," he reads, "is a shy and elusive creature…"

We never do find out what happens to him love-wise, do we? Well, then Neville/Luna = new favorite couple (...so I say, but somehow I still can't write happy oneshots, can I?) Oh, and Luna's lost her memory from a curse by a rogue Death Eater that they were hunting down post-war. Dunno how—use your imaginations ^_^

Anyway. First HP fic, so reviews are hugely appreciated!

—skrybble o_O