Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

A/N: This isn't properly British.

They're wedged between the walls of the greenhouse and castle, and Draco's wedged between Neville and the glass. He can hear the thick, spiked vines on the other side scratching to get to him, and the large, overreaching plants shroud them from the path. They're completely blocked from the view of anyone who doesn't know about this nook—anyone but Neville. The sunlight still slips down on them from overhead, orange against the clear top of the greenhouse. Neville's silhouetted in the light—when he pulls back, he glows like an angel.

He murmurs, "We should get back soon," with a final peck to Draco's lips. Draco has his arms tightly wrapped around Neville's shoulders; he doesn't accept that. He tugs Neville into another fierce kiss, forcing his tongue inside. Neville opens for him but doesn't take it long. This time, he shoves Draco's shoulders against the wall as he goes, repeating, "We have class."

"I don't care," Draco half hisses, half whines. He doesn't like being left for anything. Eighth year is a joke to him, anyway—NEWTs won't replace his Dark Mark. No one will hire him, and no one will work with him. And he doesn't want to think about that now, not when he's here with Neville. It's supposed to be a private, intermittent time, and thirty minutes between classes isn't enough. He fists his own fingers in Neville's robes as he wills Neville to stay.

Neville holds firm: a shadow of the quivering child he used to be. Now his tone is commanding, no matter how gentle he tries to make it, as he says, "Look, if I want to be an Auror, I really can't afford to fail Potions. We have to go."

"So be a Herbologist," Draco sneers. Because he doesn't go down easy. The thought of fucking an Auror sort of makes his stomach churn anyway; he could never bring Neville home to meet his parents. (Even if Neville is a pureblood, and incredibly handsome, and surprisingly skilled and a wonderful 'boyfriend.') Draco doesn't do desperation though, and when Neville finally releases his shoulders, he refuses to lunge forward like he wants to. "They don't need Potions."

A smile twitches on Neville's lips. "...They do too, actually. It's important to be able to make antidotes if you're going to work with poisonous plants."

"Pfft," Draco scoffs, rolling his eyes as if he knew that and it still doesn't matter. "That's what you have me for." Because Draco happens to be excellent at Potions, and he can afford to be a few minutes late. He can still taste Neville on the back of his tongue, and he'd make out all day if he could. He'd do more too, of course—he'd drag Neville down into the dirt and hide with him here, away from the world. He tries to make that desire clear in his eyes—that often works.

Today, Neville says quietly, "...I have you here." And the way he says it makes it sound like everything will change the minute they leave—the minute they graduate and Hogwarts is a memory. When they grow up and move on, get separate lives and drift apart. The single word puts an iceberg in Draco's stomach, and his eyebrows knit together before he can stop himself.

Then he shakes his head and schools his features back to neutrality, despite wanting to demand to know what that's supposed to mean. That they're not serious? That Draco's just a casual fuck, now that the war's knocked him down several pegs and no one else will talk to him? Draco can't even wonder if they're just really friends, because they're hardly friends at all.

They're quick, stolen, fleeting moments like this, behind trees and in the depths of abandoned corridors. They're fumbling fingers and too many feelings, sharing tragedies and masking pain with pleasure. They're good conversation, sometimes, and help with different subjects, and occasionally just shared silence. They're something strange and new that Draco would've never dreamed of, what seems so many years ago, back before the war changed everything.

Neville reaches out for Draco's hand as if to apologize. He squeezes it in reassurance, but Draco needs more than a hand squeeze.

But he takes it, because he can't beg for Neville Longbottom. He's still a Malfoy, even if that doesn't mean anything anymore.

He follows Neville back through the wild foliage, down the narrow alley of glass and brick. At the end of it, Draco holds Neville back, drawling hollowly and without making eye contact, "You go first. ...We probably shouldn't be seen together." (Because heaven forbid a Slytherin fuck a Gryffindor, and Draco has too few friends left to challenge them.)

Neville nods and kisses his cheek before disappearing through the leaves.