Fidelius

Neville Longbottom is an expert at keeping secrets, and assumptions work in his favor at times.

In school, no one figures out the real reason why he lives with his Gran, or why he always spends Christmas hols in London. No one whispers behind their backs about how Neville's parents are insane and can't even go to the loo without help. (No one except for Malfoy, but Neville doesn't think Draco counts as a real person or as someone whose opinion matters.) They assume his parents are dead and gone, and Neville never corrects them. That always seems too big of a bother to tangle with.

In war, Neville changes from student to soldier, and he fights fiercer than anyone else. They assume it's because of his parents, but that's a half-truth. His cause reaches beyond mere vengeance, and when he flings spells at Death Eaters, he doesn't have his parents' fates filling his head with worry; he has Harry's. Harry, who's gone away to find horcruxes and destroy You-Know-Who at last. Harry, who always has Ron and Hermione by his side (and Neville envies them so much). Harry, who Neville fights for and has yearned for ever since fifth year. Neville loves Harry Potter, and that's his deepest secret of all.

Despite all this, he is still stunned to silence when Hermione requests that he be Harry's Secret-Keeper.

"You can keep a secret, can't you Neville?" It's clear that she wants to try casting the complex Fidelius Charm but has never found a good enough secret until now. "The war may be over, but Harry's still a target for the remaining Death Eaters. You'll do it, won't you? The secret would be safer with you instead of Ron or I. No one would ever suspect you!"

Neville doesn't recall saying yes or nodding or giving any sort of signal of agreement that day, but somehow he ends up with the location of Harry Potter imbued within the fabric of his soul. Only he can divulge it, and he is very good at keeping secrets.

Harry disappears from the world. He disappears from Hermione and Ron and the rest of Dumbledore's Army and the Order. He disappears from the prying of the Ministry, who wants to bestow some ridiculous award to him for murdering You-Know-Who. The only living person who knows where he is at every precise moment is Neville Longbottom.

Harry says it's brilliant, like having an Invisibility Cloak wrapped around his identity. Neville understands what it's like to be completely and utterly forgotten and doesn't think it sounds brilliant at all. It actually sounds a bit frightening, but Neville places a lot of importance in the ability for people to remember, since he is the one who always forgets.

Harry travels the world and never gets recognized. Wizards spot the faded scar on his forehead and never once do their mouths drop and their fingers point to the tell-tale mark. He gives out different names to acquaintances: in London he's James; in Glasgow, Geoffrey. In the States, he introduces himself as Scott. For a young man who has spent a large chunk of his life as "THE Harry Potter," turning invisible is a welcome change.

Neville hopes that being Harry's Secret-Keeper would mean something, give them a bond other than the tenuous one forged by the Prophecy, but it doesn't change his life at all. In fact, he sees Harry less and less over the years. He worries and frets, but never once does he tell anyone where Harry is. Besides, his owls would always reach Harry, and Harry always writes back.

There comes a stretch of months when the letters stop, and the secret begins to fade from his memory, but Neville doesn't think too much of it. Perhaps Harry has discovered a small village to settle in at last and doesn't feel the need to brag about his latest sexual escapade to a friend? Neville hopes that wherever Harry is, he is happy, and that thought makes him happy. That thought keeps Neville company on the frigid winter nights as he sits alone in the cavernous Longbottom estate, gulping firewhiskey and catching up on Herbologists' Weekly. Every issue, he wonders if his article on the medicinal uses of mirrorwort has finally gone to print, and every issue disappoints him to the core.

One spring night, a pounding rouses Neville from sleep. He jerks awake, surprised to find himself still in his chair beside the fireplace. He gets to his feet, spilling his copy of the Weekly (which still lacks a Longbottom byline) to the carpeted floor. He doesn't expect company, not so late and not so loud.

The pounding on the door begins again, more insistent, angrier. Glass shatters somewhere in the hall, and Neville grasps his wand, hurrying towards the sound. He skids to the front door, wandtip lit with a quietly cast "Lumos" and aimed towards the intruder.

Neville squints into the darkness. "H-Harry...?" The man is lean and wild-eyed. His clothes stink, and his face is bearded and grubby. His dark hair is long and matted together, and if Neville has any sense, he would stupefy the stranger on the spot before he did something dangerous.

But Neville knows it's Harry because his soul screams it. It's severe, and it stings worse than the prick of a Venomous Tentacula. The insides of his skin tingle and go numb and flare, the secret itching for release. The feeling overwhelms him for a moment, and he leans against the wall for support. He's about to burst from the inside out, his bones and innards ready to break free. His eyes shut as he concentrates on the sensation, hopelessly willing it to subside.

"You..." The voice barely ekes above a whisper. "You know who I am?"

Neville nods, eyelids still clenched tightly. "You're Harry Potter." As he says the secret out loud, the blazing of his soul starts to weaken.

"You know me." The man says in surprise. He begins to laugh, and the sound sends a chill down Neville's spine. It's high and wheezy, and it resembles the way his dad used to laugh when Neville spoke with him. "Who am I?"

"You're Harry Potter," Neville repeats, the clawing pain within him easing. He opens his eyes and settles his gaze on the figure crouched low before him.

"Am I?" The man laughs again, staring down curiously at the slivers of glass imbedded in his hands, startled at the tracks of blood seeping from his cuts. "Nobody believes me. They tell me my name is Scott or John or Wallace or Andrew or James. James was my dad's name. Not mine."

Neville gulps, tracing the frames of the man's glasses with his fingertips. A slim crack runs across its left lens. He parts the man's fringe to reveal his brow. "You've still got the scar to prove it, Harry."

"I'm really Harry Potter?" He speaks in awe of the name, matching the tone of so many in the Wizarding World. "I'm famous?"

"Yeah, Harry. You were once the Boy Who Lived."

"I went--I went to the Burrow. Nobody knew who I was. Ginny tried to curse me, for God's sake! Ginny!" There's desperation in Harry's eyes, and fear. "Hermione saw me near her flat and phoned the police."

"Oh, Harry." Neville can't shift his eyes away from the man. The pang of their shared secret still pulses within him, but guilt is starting to overpower it. Harry's fate is Neville's fault. He's a brilliant Secret-Keeper. Perhaps he's a little too brilliant at it. If he broke the charm, Harry would not have ended up like this: abandoned and forgotten by nearly every person he cared about and who cared about him.

All except for one.

"Tell me my name, Neville."

"You're Harry Potter."

"Tell me again."

"Harry."

"Again."

"Harry Potter."

"AGAIN!"

"You're Harry bloody Potter, alright? You've got a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on your forehead! You killed You-Know-Who! You saved the entire Wizarding World! We were both Sorted into Gryffindor at Hogwarts! And you're my..." Neville chokes on the final words, unable to reveal the entire truth, a Secret-Keeper to the very last. "You're my...my friend."

Harry's face melts into bliss."Thank you." He embraces Neville savagely, and Neville isn't sure how to react. He's not repulsed, though. He's used to dirt and grime coating him from head to foot. Beautiful things lurk beneath dirt if you search hard enough, and hidden under the filth and stench is the one person who owned Neville's heart since he was fifteen and his soul since Hermione uttered the word "Fidelius."

Neville hesitates, arms trying to lift and fall and then lift again. He aches to envelop Harry's slim shoulders, but moment after fleeting moment, he stands frozen on the spot. Harry makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, and finally Neville gives in to the hug, pressing his weight against Harry as Harry hangs desperately onto him.

He's too close, and the urge to keep clinging to Harry forever is much too great. His heart hammers madly against his ribs and his body stiffens. He squirms free of the stick-thin arms, his voice sputtering and uncomfortable. "I...that's...that's quite enough, I think." He blinks down at Harry's bleeding palms, surprised. "You're hurt."

"It's nothing." Harry tries clasping his hands behind his back, but Neville snatches at Harry's wrists before they can disappear from view.

Neville studies the wounds carefully, his hold on Harry firm. "These cuts. They'll have to be cleaned. I've got some herbs growing in the nursery that'll do the trick."

"Neville, you don't have to--"

"Let me help you. After I muddled up your life, it's the least I can do."

"You didn't muck about with my life. I was the one who--"

"Harry," Neville interrupted with an impatient growl. "Don't you remember? I'm your Secret-Keeper. I'm the reason you ended up like this, and I've got to mend it." His grip is fierce and committed. He stares long and hard at Harry's wan face, at the cracked lens of his smudged glasses. "I've got to mend you."

Neville Longbottom is an expert at keeping secrets. His heart remains as guarded at twenty-two as it was at fifteen. He knows there are all kinds of bravery, even the sort where keeping quiet protects someone. But he still believes he can make things right if he tries hard enough, and he still believes in Harry Potter, even if the rest of the world has forgotten.