Neville could hear Ginny and Hermione's hushed conversation behind him; either they weren't bothering to keep it quiet or they didn't think they'd be overheard. But Neville had caught his name, and Oliver's, and he felt his eyes slide out of focus as he tried to hone in on what they were saying.

"So those two? Really?" He thought it was Ginny.

"Well," and this was unmistakably Hermione speaking, "they came together, but I don't know if they came together. If you take my meaning."

Neville didn't blame her for not knowing. He wasn't entirely certain either.

Oliver's arm was thrown across the back of the sofa behind Neville's shoulders, but they weren't actually touching - Oliver was lounging back with a bottle of lager in his other hand, laughing at something someone else had said while Neville had been listening to the conversation behind him. Not wanting to seem as though he'd missed the joke, Neville pasted a smile on his face and glanced over at Oliver. The other man touched glances with him and grinned widely before taking a swig of his drink.

"Oh, they really ought to be," said Ginny behind them in a speculative tone. "Oliver's so sweet, and Neville's - well - Neville."

Not convinced he enjoyed being an adjective, Neville shook his head slightly and tried very hard to listen to the conversation happening in front of him for once, but two words refused to be shunted to the back of his mind.

Ought to. Incredible, really, how everyone else's ought tos loomed so large in his life.

For example, he ought to be going out with Luna. Everyone had said so, in the months following their last year at school. And he'd tried - not very hard, of course; there had only been the one date that had ended -

Well.

She had taken him home, since she'd recently got her Apparition license and he hadn't even tried, and they'd stood on his front doorstep for a glacial age before he'd cleared his throat and asked, in a rather tremulous voice, if she wanted to come inside. Because that was what was done, wasn't it?

"Oh, no, I don't think so," Luna had said airily. "Besides, you don't like girls much, do you?"

Even though he had spent several seconds composing phrases with which to save face when she declined, Neville had still been caught remarkably flat-footed at this. "I - what?"

She'd cocked her head to the side. "Oh. You don't know yet? I thought you must by now."

And when he hadn't been able to formulate an answer, she'd given him a hug, waved cheerily, and Disapparated.

Oliver shifted next to him on the sofa as he pushed himself to standing, his arm grazing the back of Neville's neck. Neville jerked himself out of his reverie and looked up. "I'm getting another drink," Oliver said by way of explanation. "You want anything?"

Alcohol was still a mysterious and unknown avenue to Neville, who had only recently begun treading its unfamiliar paths. Gran had disapproved of that sort of thing, and it hadn't been until Neville had moved away from the ancestral Longbottom house that he'd felt brave enough to begin experimenting. "Just get me whatever you're having."

Gran. He really ought to tell her. Not about the alcohol - undoubtedly she knew that her grown grandson was drinking - but about his still murky realisation of his sexual preferences. Neville could just imagine how that conversation would go. He reckoned that if it were even possible to lecture someone into being straight, she could.

The brown bottle Oliver brought back to him was cold and wet from its time in the bucket of ice, the paper label wrinkled and beginning to peel. "Thanks," Neville said, smiling shyly up.

"Of course," Oliver said, returning Neville's smile with one of his own. He rested a hand on Neville's shoulder as he seated himself again, a casual sort of touch that raised gooseflesh down Neville's spine. Oliver was constantly doing that - casual touches that didn't mean anything, but where he touched always felt cold after he'd taken his hand away, as though he had left a warm handprint that evaporated like fog from a mirror.

Neville cherished every one with a silent fervour that he had trouble admitting to himself.

The wizard that Neville didn't know - some Quidditch player, he assumed, since Oliver knew him and they'd been talking about broomsticks all night - gestured between Neville and Oliver with his drink. "So how long have you two known each other?"

Surprised that his heart hadn't stopped, Neville stalled by taking a large swig of the bitter ale Oliver had brought him and was mildly pleased to see that Oliver had done the same, catching his eye and for once letting his calm exterior drop, just for a moment, as they both considered the particularly loaded question.

"We went to school together," Oliver offered once he'd lowered his bottle. His lips were still wet from the beverage, which Neville found rather distracting. "He was a few years under me."

"And do you play?" the wizard pressed Neville.

"Oh, no," Neville said emphatically.

"I can't get him on a broomstick to save my life," Oliver said fondly, jostling Neville with his shoulder.

"I broke my arm in three places the first and only time I tried to fly," Neville protested, the lighthearted banter calming his racing pulse.

"School brooms," Oliver scoffed, leaning back and resting his arm along the back of the sofa again. "Scott here, he makes wonderous brooms. I won't fly on anything else. I bet I could teach you to fly in just an afternoon on one of his brooms."

Tipping his drink in Oliver's direction, Scott grinned. "They're no Quicksilvers, but my latest line is a good deal more stable than whatever Hogwarts had in its shed ten years ago. You ought to take him up on his offer, Neville."

Trapped in another ought to, Neville couldn't do anything but shrug and lift his drink to his lips again. Oliver deftly changed the subject, and the dangerous topic was successfully left behind, but Neville felt the tiniest pang of - was it regret? Had he hoped Oliver would say something more concrete about what exactly existed between them?

Or was Oliver waiting for him to say something first?

Granted, nothing Oliver had said in the masterful evasion had been false - but despite being in the same House for three years, Neville had never actually met Oliver at school. Oh, he'd known the older Quidditch Captain by sight, and once Neville had moved out discovered they both lived in the same building just outside London, but Neville hadn't spoken a word to him until a week ago - unless he wanted to remember the night they had won the war, when he and Oliver had found themselves collecting the dead together, and he made a point of forgetting that.

"Where are you Flooing from?" Oliver had practically demanded as Neville stumbled out of the fireplace into Harry's kitchen.

"My flat," Neville had responded, bewildered.

"But you're two storeys up from me, and I haven't got a fireplace."

"Oh - only top storey gets a fireplace. One of the biggest reasons I'm paying extra rent."

That ought to have been the end of the conversation, but for some reason, Oliver had shrugged and extended his hand. "I'm Oliver. Oliver Wood. I think we went to school together."

"Neville Longbottom," Neville had replied, mildly anxious as he grasped the offered hand and not certain why. "Er - d'you want to use mine to Floo back later?" He did not know where the offer had come from, and while the rest of his mind paused, aghast at his behaviour, his mouth continued. "I mean, we're in the same building, and it's a damn sight better than Apparating, especially when you've had a few."

Oliver had paused as well, as if trying to puzzle out whether the offer was genuine. "That's very gracious," he'd said slowly. "I might take you up on that."

They'd not spoken the rest of the evening, though it had seemed to Neville that every time he looked up, it was to catch Oliver looking at him speculatively. Neville had hoped that the near-constant flush in his cheeks could be blamed on the alcohol, even though it was clear to anyone watching that he hadn't had enough to enebriate a mouse.

It had been years since Luna's innocent question about his sexuality, but he'd been spending those years pointedly ignoring it. In fact, unless one counted Gran's inexhaustible attempts to find him a wife, he'd ignored the dating scene entirely, preferring to stay in and read and not think about women or men or sex in any way.

But watching Oliver's shoulders move under his loose cotton shirt, or glimpsing the bottom edge of an indiscernable tattoo on his bicep peeking from under his sleeve, Neville had caught his thoughts travelling down an altogether unfamiliar and slightly terrifying route.

And Neville had technically invited the man back to his flat after the party.

He'd made tea. He didn't know what else to do. He'd made tea with too much milk and they'd held their mugs at the kitchen table, watching the flame of the lamp in the centre, and Oliver had tried to talk about Quidditch but Neville has woefully ignorant of such things.

And then Oliver had come right out and said it: "Are you seeing anyone?"

It had taken Neville several moments to remember how his tongue worked, and once he'd got that working, his brain had stopped. "I - I don't know. I really don't. There - we've been on a few dates but - I don't - actually like her?" He winced. "It's for my Gran. She's really traditional, she doesn't know that I - well. She wants me to get married. Continue the family name." He realised he was babbling and stopped.

"Ah." Oliver had studied his tea for a moment. "I just got out of something. Apparently I wanted more from it than he did."

Inexperienced as he was, Neville knew that the entire topic was an excuse for them to assure the other that they were, in fact, interested in men. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry to hear that. Breakups are hard." Not that he knew anything about that.

Oliver had grinned cheekily. "Yes, well, I'm not sorry to say it. The line between love and a waste of time is a frustratingly subtle one, and I'm better off."

There really hadn't been anything to say to that. They'd sipped their tea until Oliver had looked at his watch and politely excused himself. Manners winning out over all else, Neville had walked him to the door.

"Are you going next weekend?" he'd found himself asking as Oliver slipped out.

"Hm?" Oliver turned.

"To Harry and Ginny's. She's got another match next Saturday and he usually has some sort of thing after." Neville's fingers lay flat against the edge of the door, and Oliver would have had to be much closer to see how white the knuckles were as Neville tried to master their trembling. "Only if you are, you could use my fireplace again."

Oliver's tired smile had seemed almost more genuine than the weary dark circles beneath his eyes. "Yeah? I'll think on it. Have a good night, Neville."

And then there had been tonight. Oliver showing up at his door, Neville nearly swallowing his own tongue in surprise that he had remembered, and though Oliver was obviously comfortable milling about with all the people he had stayed by Neville's side all night, with the casual touches and the bloody knee-weakening smiles and -

Neville was not at all certain he could handle this. Any minute now, he was going to snap and do something stupid beyond normal ken, like he always did. If he was honest with himself, he wanted nothing more than to leave now. He didn't know what had him so jumpy - that was a complete lie, he knew exactly what had him so jumpy and his name was Oliver - but he suddenly did not want to be around other people. It was loud and it was late and the ale had made his cheeks just the slightest bit numb, and he was very much aware of how many people here he did not know. In his mind he imagined that they were all looking at him and Oliver on the sofa from the corners of their eyes, wondering.

That was it, really. That they thought they knew something, and yet he had no idea himself. And he didn't even think he wanted these people knowing - he hadn't even properly come out to himself yet, for Merlin's sake, and there they were. Assuming. Acting like they'd even expected it. Just how obvious was he? Come to think of it, he hadn't told Hermione or Ginny yet - not in so many words - and yet they seemed completely unsurprised.

Why was it everyone else seemed to know him better than he did?

"Hey." Neville started and turned his head quickly; Oliver was looking at him intently, concern in his eyes. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Then, "No. Not really." Neville swallowed and glanced around the room. "I - think I need to go."

Oliver did not even blink. "Okay. Let's go."

Something twinged inside Neville's chest. "You don't need to leave just because I am."

"I know I don't." Oliver pushed himself off the sofa. "But I will anyway. Come on. Let's get you home."

"I'm not trying to be dramatic," Neville mumbled as they made their way to the kitchen. "I just - sometimes people -"

"Neville, I get it." Oliver lowered his voice to a whisper. "I feel conspicuous, too. Let's just get back to yours and we can talk."

Neville moved about his sitting room in a sort of daze, lighting lamps as he waited for Oliver, whom he assumed was making his goodbyes. When the flames finally leapt up in an emerald wave, Neville felt a good deal calmer than he had in Harry's crowded house, if not entirely at ease.

"Sorry," Oliver said as he flicked a bit of charcoal from the back of his forearm. "Harry wanted to know if you're all right. I told him you were just tired."

Nodding wordlessly, Neville moved over on the sofa and Oliver lowered himself next to him. They watched the flames dance in the fireplace for a few moments before Oliver took a breath.

"Your friends. You haven't told them yet, have you?" Neville shook his head. "Were you ready to?"

The question caught Neville by surprise. He shrugged. "I'm honestly not really certain myself." He jumped as Oliver moved on the couch next to him, but it was just to rub his eyes.

"Neville, I - I'm sorry if - I didn't mean to upset you. You just seemed... interested. And if you were a bit shy, I just reckoned you were shy. I didn't know you were..." Oliver sighed. "Shit. I've made a mess of things. I'm sorry."

"I'm the one who's a mess," Neville said darkly, toying with an imperfection of the fabric of the sofa cushion beneath him. "Can't make heads or tails of what I want. Don't like girls, which leaves men, but - it's terrifying. I don't know how to do this, don't even know if I want to, don't even know where to start if I do." He took a deep breath. "And then - I feel like I've been lying to everyone, not telling them as soon as I knew. Seems like a crap thing to do, just showing up and surprising them."

"But you don't know," Oliver pointed out quietly. "And how is it any of their goddamn business, anyway? Why should you have to tell them anything?"

Neville felt his brow furrow as he considered that. "Because," he began, but couldn't think of any words to follow it.

"You're gay. Or you're bisexual. Or you're asexual. Or one of the infinite shades on the spectrum of human behaviour. That's your business. You don't owe an explanation to anyone." Oliver paused, taking a breath, then continued in a lower voice. "I'm telling you this because it took years before anyone told it to me. I know something of how you feel. And maybe -" His voice caught. "Maybe I'm the last thing you need right now."

"No," Neville said quickly, before he was even aware he was saying it. "No," he said again, more quietly. "Things - they just start to make sense around you. I get nervous. My mouth gets dry. I can't stop watching you. And - it's scary, but it makes more sense than anything else I've ever had happen to me." He swallowed. "That's why I went with you tonight. Because it felt right." He let out an exhalation that was half a laugh. "Bloody terrifying. But right."

He looked up and his eyes locked with Oliver's, making him catch his breath. He didn't know where he got the cue, but he slowly closed his eyes as Oliver leaned towards him.

Their lips met and a tiny thrill shot through to the tips of Neville's fingers, raising the hairs on the back of his neck, and he would have gasped had his mouth not been otherwise occupied. Oliver's lips were softer than he'd guessed, and the ease with which they caught at his own made everything so effortless that Neville almost - but not quite - forgot where he was and what exactly he was doing.

Oliver broke away first, and Neville was astonished to find that as he opened his eyes, he felt -

"How was that?" Oliver asked softly. "That feel right?"

"You have no idea." Neville swallowed. "You... make things make sense."

Oliver's answering smile was almost bashful as he gathered Neville into his arms. "Come here, then."

But Oliver did not pull Neville in for another kiss; he held him, and as they watched the flames recede to embers, traced idle patterns on Neville's shoulder, while Neville listened to Oliver's heartbeat against his chest; they fell asleep that way, in a moment of intimacy so profound that it lasted all the way through to the next morning, as Neville awoke with a crick in his neck and a sore back and still did not want to move.

But he had to move, if he wanted a blanket, and warm as Oliver was, it was still freezing in the flat with the fire out. Oliver stirred as Neville drew the blanket over them both and smiled sleepily. "Morning."

"Morning." He ought to feel panicked. He ought to feel ashamed, or confused, or - something.

Neville snuggled himself up against Oliver's side again and sighed contentedly. To hell with everyone else's ought tos. This was none of their business.