She's a bit in love with Neville Longbottom, if she's going to be perfectly honest. He's got this quirky smile that twists a little at the corners – some might say it looks impish, but she knows better than to assume something like that of him. He's always helping her with her Herbology homework because it's her hardest subject and he blushes that pink color she likes whenever somebody compliments him – if she drops her books in the hall, he's the first to dive and pick them up, even if they do slip out of his arms a lot and crunch his toes, and he's really just a sweet, adorable boy and Hannah is the girl in the background, chewing on her quill and wishing he'd realize how she feels.

She doesn't tell anyone of her adoration of him, because they'd most likely scoff and ask how she could fancy Neville of all the boys in her year, with his klutziness and dorkiness and general gawkiness, but she'd rather have him than any more popular guy because he's kind and sweet and treats her like she's more than that Hufflepuff girl – he treats her like she's Hannah Abbott, a girl with blonde hair that shines and brown eyes that crinkle and a laugh that's like wind chimes.

And in him she sees more than the klutzy, dorky, gawky Longbottom boy – there's a heart of gold beating in his chest, and she knows, in contrast to a lot of the boys in her year, he'd do anything for his friends – he'd die for them, and even if it's a little morbid, she longs to be someone he'd charge a dragon for.

Okay, she's a lot in love with Neville Longbottom.

.

They start to get closer in seventh year – everybody's doing things like that, finding comfort where they can in the arms of whomever. Like Seamus and Lavender, how he's always coddling her, and Angelina and Fred, how he and he only can make her laugh, and Ernie and Susan, how they're both trying to find courage inside. Hannah and Neville are just another pair amongst them.

He finds her crying in a secluded corner of the library, knees up to her chin and rocking back and forth. The news of her mother is fresh in her head and the scar on her left arm from Alecto Carrow still throbbing.

He bends down to her level, and in the light she can see the scars and bruises and cuts all over his face, his swollen-shut eye and busted lip. It's a bit grotesque, the sight, but to see him here, with that look on his face – that look of concern, worry, anger – she can hardly notice the imperfections.

"Hannah?" he whispers, careful to keep his voice low, "Are you alright?"

She tries to nod, but the tears choke her and she thinks there isn't any use in lying, so she just continues bawling, and somewhere along the way she ends up in his embrace, his fingers tracing patterns on her back and his breath soft in her hair. She welcomes the touch, melding into him and her tears start to dissipate as he whispers words of comfort to her, pretty little lies like "It'll be okay," and "You'll make it through."

And she knows he doesn't even trust what he's saying, but for now she lets him lie and lets herself believe.

.

From then there's a connection, and it's almost impossible to find one of them without the other. Everything gets so much brighter with him, she thinks, even in dark times like this – he's her guardian angel, her protector, her savior, even, because he shields her from the Carrows and tells off people when they make fun of her and knock her books out of her hands. She still remembers vividly the time he called Parkinson a "royal bitch" for making fun of her hair.

"It's not stringy, Hannah," he assures her when they leave Parkinson with her mouth agape, "It's actually…kind of pretty, you know…"

And she smiles because he thinks she's pretty and it's like her wildest dreams have come true, and she's yearning for him to lean down and kiss her right now like in all those movies and they can have a happily-ever-after.

Obviously he doesn't, just awkwardly smiles and walks her to class, because he's still Neville Longbottom underneath the raging temper and golden-hearted bravery, and he's not much of a romantic – but that's just the way he is, and Hannah really can't hate that.

.

When he does kiss her, it's nothing like in her fantasies, suave and dreamy and heart-meltingly romantic – it's more than a little uncomfortable, with him bending to her level and his hands fumbling around her hips, touching her like she's fragile porcelain.

And it's not in a broom closet or in the Room of Requirement like she'd dreamed, where they'd walk three paces and enter to find a bed with rose petals covering it and fine wine and candles (hey, so a girl can dream) – it's in one of the greenhouses, and he gets his hand punctured by a thorn that she ends up having to nurse, and the mood is most definitely killed, sliced into little pieces, and set afire.

"Well," he mutters, clearing his throat uneasily, "I should best get back to Gryffindor Tower – DADA next and, you know…"

"Yeah." she says, averting her eyes from him. He gets up and walks away, and she looks at his feet as he retreats – he's wearing loafers that are too small for his large feet, and they pitter-patter against the ground, squish under the mud.

The sounds are just so pitiful she can't stand it – she doesn't know why but she can't, and she stands and flings her arms around his neck and sooner or later it is just how she pictured it, his arms around her waist and his tongue in her mouth, and for once in these last few months Hannah just feels a sense of happiness, a sense of relief.

A sense of it'll be okay.

.

For awhile, they live in a delusional world where it is all okay, as his fingers fit into the crooks between hers and her hair blows back in the springtime breeze. They're not oblivious to what's going on, as Neville gains new wounds and teaches the DA new spells and hexes, but when the Room of Requirement's cleared out, and it's just them cloaked in the darkness, he'll kiss her, and they can forget there's a war, forget sooner or later they'll have to fight, forget this might not last.

Until the buildings start burning and people start dying, are they ripped from this dream of theirs with their wands out and battle cries erupting in their throats. She watches him charge, screaming, waving, running, and her heart fills to the brim with that sense of love before it plummets down to her stomach when she sees the blood. And it hurts because she can't help him – she can only grab Susan's hand and run into the chaos, flinging spells and dodging them.

And throughout it all, the only thing she can think of is Neville, Neville, Neville because he's in the middle while she's just on the outskirts – she knows war doesn't pick and choose. It doesn't weed out the bad guys only. It takes the good ones and kills them, leaving their bodies to be picked up and their short lives to be remembered. (She knows – it happened to her mother.) And she dreads ending this nightmare like Angelina watching the light fade from Fred's jubilant eyes or Seamus hearing about Lavender's attack – she doesn't want to walk through the wreckage when it's over, no matter which side wins, without his hand in hers.

She almost wants to cry at the end – the very, very end, when the Death Eaters are gone and You-Know – screw it, Voldemort – is vanquished – when she sees he's alright, save the injuries, smiling sadly at her as the dead are shuffled away. She just fits her head into the crook of his neck instead, lets his arms wrap around her, and she feels guilty with him so close and so warm and so alive, as Seamus traces Lavender's scars, telling her she'll be okay and knowing she won't and as Angelina bursts into tears when George tries to comfort her – she locks gazes with Ernie from across the rubble, his hand in Susan's, and they share a meaningful, ashamed nod.

Then Neville kisses her forehead so gently, and the guilt twists her insides but then her heart jumps back into her chest where it beats faster than ever, and she's happy for a split-second knowing he survived because he's the only one who she trusts anymore.

.

She kisses him from across the counter as she wipes it clean. Little Jodi's hand is trapped in his, her other's thumb in her mouth.

"Jodi, dear, you're eleven," she scolds, "You must stop that."

Jodi removes the thumb with a disgruntled pop.

Neville smiles down at her, rustling his daughter's mane of curly black hair before turning to Hannah. "Well, now you're rid of both of us for a year."

Hannah shrugs sadly. "There's always Christmas. Besides, when Jodi's friends get wind her mother owns the tavern, business will be exploding."

Neville laughs, kissing her again, his lips tasting like Butterbeer and Honeydukes candy. "I love you, Hannah."

Her heart flutters, reminiscent of the days spent at Hogwarts longing to hear those same words escape his mouth. "I-I lo-love you, too."

And she watches as he and Jodi leave the tavern, Jodi's thumb somehow sneaking its way back into her mouth, but Hannah can't bring herself to protest.