Disclaimer: All characters & places belong to J. K. Rowling. I'm making no money from this.

Author's Notes: Another quick D/N PWP. It's a sort of... love scene. I can't write love. Nuff said.


By Libertine


"So this is for real, you think?"

For real. It's a strange choice of words. Not out of place, not exactly, yet it's jarring nontheless. For real. What is 'real', anyway, when it's at home? The wind in your hair, the feel of those coarse tiles against your palms, the way the moonlight seems to settle in his hair: phosphorescent, gleaming. Or is it the land that's real: the stretch of leafy canopy that seems to spread outwards beneath your feet, branches bristling against the breeze. What is really 'real' to a wizard, to a boy who knows that anything is possible -- on the proviso you know the right charm.

But in the darkness here, with him beside you and his fingers wrapped tightly around your waist, nothing is real. Everything is sur-real: the tower roof, the trees, and even Draco himself. Without the babble of your school friends hemming you in, giving you a place, a reason, an identity... without that constant sea of instructions and suggestions and trivialities, everything seems suddenly clear, too clear, so clear that it can't possibly be true. The answer you give him now, whatever it is, will be dependant on the here-and-now, dictated by this perfect moment.

Whatever you tell him will be a lie tomorrow morning.


His chin rests on your shoulder, his cheek against yours, and his skin is smoother than you remember. Gently, he slides along you, his body pressing to yours, and slowly you lie back. Though you feel a faint sense of apprehension, it is not born of fear. You may be one hundred feet above the ground, but with his slight weight to anchor you, you are not afraid of falling.

"...yes?" you whisper.

Then there is a silence measured in small kisses, soft kisses. He's not being cautious; simply kind. The side of him only you know -- you hope. There's a hopeless jealousy in your head, a crazy idea that he has brought others up here, to the tower, and you aren't the first boy to find himself sprawled on the roof with Draco's tongue sneaking along his lower lip. You haven't seen any evidence to this effect, but the thought still preys on your mind. Envy... but of whom?

Of no one, you find yourself admitting, feeling slightly childish. Of no one, of phantom lovers who may or may not exist.

The un-real.


"So this is for real, you think?"

Neville has never been the chatty type, and you respect that -- you respect silence. Your father has always demanded silence of you. He would tell you, 'Be seen and not heard, Draco,' and you showed him you understood with your lips bitten shut between your teeth. Sometimes you wish you could speak to him, and speak freely. But you are young now, and he has told you on numerous occasions that your thoughts are uninformed and juvenile.

Originally, this frustrated you, even upset you. Now you are happy to bide your time. There is a dignity inherent to silence which very few understand or acknowledge. It takes all your strength and will power, sometimes, to maintain that dignity. But Neville... well, silence comes naturally to him, an innate ability you both envy and adore.

He does not speak unless spoken to, and sometimes not even then.

"Neville?" you try again; you rest your body on his. You will coerce an answer from him, even if it is a communication of kisses.


Your fingers, his hair, your lips, his mouth. He is responsive, but not overly so: not as responsive as you would like. Is he hiding something from you in his silences? Is he capable of hiding anything? You've learnt already he's far less vapid than he seems, far less honest than his Gryffindor ilk supposedly is. You've caught him in a few lies -- little things. He's lied about where Potter is, what the Weasel is doing. You'd only asked because you wanted privacy, because you (and he) would certainly be the laughing stock of the school if word of your trysts got out... but you got the feeling that he, flushed and spitting fallacies, was jealous.

Jealous! If his face hadn't been set in such a serious cast, you might have laughed. 'Don't trust me, Longbottom?' you might have teased, pulling at his dark hair until he yelped. But the idea of him being jealous... it filled you with a sense of pride which far outweighed your annoyance at his lies. Let him lie, you'd decided then. Let him lie, and let him doubt you. It only makes him want you more.


You like being wanted. You like people to believe they need to *possess* you. You like the idea that you can send such a placid little person into a fit of jealousy.


Thoughtfully, you trace a salve of saliva down his nose with the tip of your tongue, and his face screws up in distaste. Wriggling, he pushes at your shoulders, and you rise from him, lofting a brow. He's struggling -- with words, against silence. His lips are pursed into a firm line.

"Problem, Longbottom?" you ask, casually.


You smirk. "What is it, hm?" you say, pushing your fingers against his chest. "Don't like the height? Don't like the sky? Don't like the cold? Don't like -- oh, horror of unfounded horrors -- me?"

"No... not that. You asked, before... that question. I wanted to say yes. It is."

He kisses your hand and smiles; he pulls you down again upon him; and in the silence that follows, you feel uniformed and juvenile all over again.


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