A/N: I'm back! Laptop up and running again, feelin' dandy. This was originally written for Fire the Canon and Ralinde's Fanfiction, School of Imagination thingy, but I have since dropped out of most challenges/competitions partly because of laptop issues and partly because of life.

So, basically, I just want to blame Ash for the weird pairing.

i.

"I can't do this anymore," she says, and her voice cracks right along with your rapidly beating heart. "You remind me too much of everything I can never have, Nev. Everything we can never have."

ii.

Rose is freckly, and pale, and pretty, and frowns a lot more than a young girl should. But she is patient and kind, and she listens for hours on end.

You are sobbing again – pathetic, really – and she is patting your back and rubbing your shoulder and murmuring it's okay over and over. She really is the sweetest thing. Where would you be without her?

iii.

"Hannah, please," you beg, but you don't know what you're begging for, don't know why you're still trying when her bags are already packed and hovering by her feet. "Han, we can make it better; I can make it better. We just need – need time, don't we? If we can just stick it out, then – "

iv.

She blinks quite slowly, you think, slowly and sadly and sweetly, and perhaps you only notice because her eyes are boring into yours. Her mouth shapes its nonsensical comforts, and her eyes blink in their calming rhythm, and you are not shaking quite as much as before.

The moonlight shines in through the glass of your greenhouse, spills over all the green, the ginger of her hair, catches in the icy blue of her eyes and everything feels a little less real, a little more – more magical.

"I should be stronger than this," you sigh, and she squeezes your shoulder.

"You are strong," she says. "But strength can only do so much."

v.

She smiles, tears glittering in her beautiful brown eyes, and shakes her head. "Neville. You wonderful, sweet, perfect man. After everything we've been through, do you really want to spend your life 'sticking it out'? You deserve a family, Neville." Her voice wavers, the tears flowing freely down her face, her cheeks flushed and blotchy. You want to kiss them from her skin but you know she won't let you.

vi.

There is an innocence to her smile that reminds you of high towers and Honeydukes and being sixteen again, and she says, "You're still young, Neville. You'll find someone else." And you want to say no, I don't want anybody else, I want her, but, for some reason, you can't. You can't.

Perhaps you are afraid of what she might say in return.

vii.

"I need you," you say, and she smiles again.

"You need a family," she says softly. "Need a woman who can give you everything you've ever wanted."

viii.

"She thought she wasn't good enough for me," you choke. "Her. Not good enough for me. Me. Pathetic little Neville Longbottom. How could she think that?"

"Don't sell yourself short like that," Rose whispers. "You're a wonderful man."

Your blush is nothing to hers, and it should be awkward, shouldn't it? But the softness of her hands on your back and those slow blinking lashes make the moment so tender that you are almost afraid to speak again in case it shatters.

ix.

"I want you," you growl, anger bubbling in your chest. "Please, just – just don't do this. There are other ways, other things we can try, children who need a family. We can – "

"Neville, please," she begs, but you don't know what she's begging for, don't know why she thinks you will let her leave without another word. "I love you. And I want what's best for you."

x.

"If you were in her shoes," Rose says softly, "would you have done the same thing?"

xi.

"Hannah, why can't you see?" you choke, and it is barely above a whisper, a broken croak that echoes far too loudly in the distance between you. "You're my family. Don't leave me."

xii.

"No. No, I don't think so. Does that make me selfish?"

xiii.

"I'm sorry, Neville," she says, and flicks her wand towards her bags. They float through the doorway and out of sight, and Hannah turns to leave, pausing in the doorway. She is silhouetted by the light outside, all sweet, warm curves, the gentleness that is Hannah, her honey blonde hair falling down her back so softly that you just want to reach out and tangle it in your fingers like you used to, want to drag her back and kiss her until she says she doesn't mean a word of it.

xiv.

And Rose is all listening ears and warm limbs and soft, soft hands, and you are all trembling touches and watery eyes and half-hearted sobs, but she is still here. She is still here.

"I hate seeing you like this," she says quietly. "You're too sweet for this."

"I'm sorry," you croak, and bury your head in your hands. "I'm sorry, I'm a bloody mess."

"Don't be sorry," she says, and you think she might be on the verge of tears. "Be happy. For me. I care about you a lot, Neville."

She places a careful hand on your knee. You look up, meet those bright blue eyes with your own. "I - I'll try. I will."

xv.

"I love you, Mrs. Longbottom," you say, but it's desperate and clings to your tongue awkwardly, like it knows it is not welcome.

xvi.

And Rose is all sweet words and soft lips, all understanding and caring and love, and she's holding your face in her hands, her soft, soft hands, and her kiss says she cares, she really does.

"I'm sorry," you say again, because what else can you say? And she laughs against your lips, all throaty and tearful and torn, and kisses you again until your hands stop shaking and this is wrong, so bloody wrong.

xvii.

She looks back at you over her shoulder, and she's so beautiful that your breath catches in your throat. "Please," she says, "Miss Abbott."

xviii.

"Don't leave me," you whisper, and you don't know if you mean now or tonight or ever, but Rose says, "I won't, I won't," anyway, and folds into your arms like she thinks she can make it all better if she just covers the most painful parts of you, her hands folded across your heart, her lips ghosting her warm breath across yours, and you wonder if she can feel your heart beat, that erratic thumpthumpthumping against her fingertips.

xix.

"Don't go," you beg, but she does.

And the house is empty and silent, still smells like her. Still smells like home.

You stumble back to bed and pull the covers over your head until there is barely any air and your heart's pounding in your ears and you aren't sure if you're crying or bleeding and, anyway, it's all the same, isn't it?

xx.

"I'm here," she tells you. "I'm right here," and your bones stop trembling, your body stops twitching, plagued with nightmares and pain and why did it have to go like this?

"Thank you," you murmur to her jaw, "for everything."

"You're welcome," she says, and buries her face in your neck. You breathe in the scent of her, flowery and sweet, and you're surprised to find that she smells an awful lot like safety.

"Don't go," you whisper, and she doesn't. She doesn't.