Harry Potter Their Dustland Fairytale

**This first chapter was written in response to Day 2 of Sinistra Black's second "Sheherazade Challenge", and it includes some prompts from the Slytherin Corner. Credit to Mew and Mor's Weird Pairings, as always, and I am dedicating this story to both of them. Come back soon, you pair!**

**If you like it enough to add it to your list of favourite stories, then please leave a review. It's only polite, after all.**

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"_Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill _

_The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet; _

_My heart has far more fire than you can frost to chill, _

_My soul more love than you can make my soul forget."_

-Victor Hugo, 'More Strong than Time'

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"_Change came in disguise of revelation, set his soul on fire, _

_She said she always knew he'd come around, _

_And the decades disappear like sinking ships..."_

-The Killers, 'A Dustland Fairytale'

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The countryside was quiet, its golden fields of wheat content to swish lazily back and forth in the afternoon breeze. A flock of swifts were spread across the nearby trees, their musical calls the only thing energetic enough to brave the baking heat of the sun without shelter, save for the odd fly. It was perfectly peaceful, until the ground began to shudder. The leaves on the trees rustled gently, as though nervous. A sleek metal train hurtled past, thundering through rural England. Immediately, the wheat bent over as though every individual stalk had thrown itself to the ground to seek protection. The birds propelled themselves from branches, their wings flapping furiously – however, by the time they were all airborne, assembling themselves into flight formation, the train had passed, taking with it several holidaying families, bored of the coasts of their native France, a number of notable diplomats and entrepreneurs, a group of women who, having exhausted the boutiques of Paris, were determined either to find some fashionable new clothes or spend the next few days deriding the absence of elegance in English dress, and one rather well dressed young witch who was sat alone.

The small stir caused by her return to the country was nothing when compared to that which the reason for her departure had caused.

Her beauty was striking in a way that didn't simply cause people to look twice – if it hadn't been dulled by sadness, it would have had the power to mesmerise, as it had done in the past. The young woman's hair was a rich shade of blonde, falling around her cheeks and framing the symmetry of her facial features, and her eyes an intense blue. She was very attractive, needless to say, although the listlessness with which she had sat would not have suggested to any of the passengers who walked past her compartment that she was the kind of person that could be found at the heart of any scandal.

She liked the anonymity of travel. She was a woman who had smart clothes, luggage and a small pile of letters on her lap – nothing more, and nothing less.

Away from the curious gaze of an army of young cousins, away from the shocked whispers of aunts and uncles when they thought that she couldn't hear them, it was almost possible for her to forget that any of it had taken place. Her father's shock, her mother's disappointment and the horror of her two younger siblings were not anything that she was keen to remember.

Although she had initially railed against the decision, she had, in fact, been rather glad of the wordless acceptance of her maternal grandparents. What she had done was not what they considered an appropriate conversational topic; there had been none of the chastisements she had expected, or any of the castigation. In their own, quiet way, they had accepted her presence in their home.

As she watched the lush green landscapes begin to fall away and reveal towns, she felt more keenly than ever before that although she had left several problems behind, she had also left what had made them worthwhile. The tips of her fingers traced the words on the parchment she carried. The older letters were as smooth as velvet, their crisp texture worn away by the same process that the newest of their contemporaries was undergoing. Every letter began in the same way: _My Dear Victoire..._

Every so often, as the train drew closer to its destination, she would look down, despite having memorised every word, as though to check that she was not mistaken. She wondered if the single reply she had sent was equally treasured.

By the time the city was visible, her hands were trembling. Otherwise, there was no sign that the young woman felt anything beyond apathy about her imminent arrival in London.

The train began to slow. Her heart, on the other hand, raced in her chest, hammering against her ribcage as a familiar scene rolled into view. King's Cross Station was unchanged since she had last seen it, and although there were Muggles striding purposefully in every direction, it was not as busy as it ever had been on the first of September. There were no poorly disguised members of the wizarding community, and the only birds she could see underneath the high glass ceiling were pigeons. As the train ground to a halt, she tucked the sheaves of parchment into her handbag, giving the top letter a final, lingering glance.

She took her time, reapplying her lipstick and organising her luggage, telling herself that it was because she was unaccustomed to travelling without magic that she delayed. By the time she had made it out into the aisle, the train was all but deserted. Lingering by the doors, she observed the platform before her; it would be the first time she had set foot on English ground in slightly over two months.

Perhaps motivated by pity, perhaps compelled by her good looks, the conductor lifted her suitcase out of the train and took her elbow, guiding her down onto the platform.

"Watch your step there, miss." He tipped his hat to her and departed, leaving a dazed young woman in his wake. Before she could try and find him, he had disappeared into the crowd leaving her quite alone.

Her family were nowhere to be seen, but it was not them she was waiting for. They were not expecting her home for another week, and it was impossible to say if their greeting would be as warm as those she was accustomed to upon her return from Hogwarts.

Feigning her old confidence, she walked forwards slowly, attempting to hide the fact that she was scanning the crowds around her. The case was heavy already, and her palm was slick with a sweat that wasn't entirely due to the heat. Anxious and frustrated, she was worried that her case was going to fall. With an impatient sigh, she made her way over to a bench and put down her luggage, wiping her hands against the linen of her skirt.

"Victoire?" A familiar voice spoke her name, barely audible over the hustle and bustle of the station. "Is that you?"

She turned, her various minor discomforts erased from her mind by the sight of him standing before her: Neville. Seeing him again wasn't like she had imagined it would be. She wasn't presumptuous enough to jump into his arms, as she had dreamed of doing, and the passers-by certainly weren't going to spontaneously applaud as they kissed. Even though her mind was instructing her legs to walk towards him, she was paralysed by the sea of feelings that washed over her – feelings that she had been frightened had dried up.

Neville was just as she remembered him; tall and rugged with warm brown eyes and a way of looking at her that made Victoire feel – _know_ – that she was precious to him. He hadn't shaved for a couple of days, and there were a few more grey strands in his hair, but otherwise he looked to be in good health. It seemed that she hadn't destroyed him, at least not physically.

"Hello, Neville." She couldn't help but smile as she spoke, absolutely radiant, even in the midst of the dust and congestion of the station, until she managed to compose herself, schooling her features into an expression that was closer to neutral.

He stepped nearer, an intense look of concern making its way into his eyes.

"How was France?" There were many underlying questions – _How was your exile? How did your family react? Did you get my letters? Was it worthwhile, to you?_ – none of which he voiced, although Victoire could feel them all in the gentle pressure of his hand on her shoulder.

"It was... alright. Warm, I suppose, and the food was wonderful." Victoire nibbled on her lower lip, eyes focussed directly in front her on the collar of Neville's shirt. A few seconds of silence stretched between them. Before he could open his mouth, she looked up and spoke again: "I missed you terribly. Every single day, I thought of you – thought about how you must have been getting on, since..."

"It's not – You don't have to..." Neville sighed. "Let's go for a coffee; we can sit down and talk properly."

"Okay." Going to a cafe wasn't exactly what Victoire had imagined them doing upon their reunion. Truthfully, she hadn't been able to guess what would come after the cinematic kiss she had hoped for – they hadn't spoken for several weeks, and a lot would have changed in that time, not that she knew all of the details. Still, Neville had always made her feel secure, and she trusted his judgement more than even her own. "That would be nice."

Lifting her case by the handle, Neville led the way from the station. Victoire followed, her handbag slung over one shoulder. Together, they navigated their way through the crowds of pedestrians, although for several minutes the click of Victoire's heels on the concrete was the only sound that passed between them.

"I missed you too, Victoire, more than I could stand. Did you get my letters?" As they stopped before a crossing, Neville turned to watch as she nodded, her loose curls bouncing around her shoulders. "I waited for you to write back."

There was no accusation in his voice – one of her favourite things about Neville was that he didn't throw blame around, waiting for it to stick. And Victoire hated herself all the more for not replying to his letters as a result. His had stopped her from going insane with the frustration of not knowing what he was thinking, and yet she hadn't done him the same kindness by satisfying his curiosity.

"I tried. I never knew what to say. What _was_ there to say? You lost everything because of me." Her eyes were over-bright. Ever courteous, Neville looked away as the lights changed, taking her hand in his and pulling Victoire across the street.

"Not everything's about you, Victoire." A teasing smile played around his mouth. Between them, their clasped hands swung back and forth as they walked on, a pendulum measuring their stolen moments – the beginning of a stolen future, or so she hoped. "It wasn't entirely your fault: most of it was mine, actually."

"Don't be silly." Gesturing for Victoire to follow him into a cafe, he held the door open for her and guided her to a table.

If being in the Muggle world made him uncomfortable, Neville gave no indication of it. He set down her suitcase, and together they began to scan the menu.

"I'll go up and order, if you'd like." As far as she knew, there was no reason for him to spend any significant amount of time outside of the wizarding world. Of the two of them, Victoire was more comfortable with the currency. "Do you want to share a cake?"

He gave a wry smile, and for a moment it seemed as though nothing had changed – she was perpetually watching her figure, and Neville was amused by how vigilantly she did so. They had often 'shared' food; Victoire would take a tiny piece and eat it slowly, with more patience than she was often wont to display, leaving Neville the lion's share.

"I don't see why not. I'll have a coffee, too." He began to flick through one of the magazines that had been left on the table, tapping the photographs with his index finger as though to encourage them to move.

With a final fond glance at his bowed head, Victoire turned and stood by the counter. She gave their order without incident, even managing to count out the correct change – her paternal grandfather, she thought, would be very proud, assuming that any small achievement she might make had not been overshadowed by what he doubtlessly perceived as her greatest misconduct.

As she slid onto the bench across from him, Victoire pressed an impulsive kiss against Neville's cheek. Surreptitiously, he pulled his wand from his pocket, holding it under the table.

"Muffliato." Replacing his wand, Neville took her hand in his, no longer concerned about their privacy. He had never worn a wedding ring, his hands forever immersed in soil, working with all sorts of exotic plants. Her Aunt Ginny had said that the ordinarily docile Hannah had shocked her customers by proclaiming that dirt was her husband's natural element. "Now, tell me: what was that for?"

"Because," Victoire paused, knowing that she should have said the words months ago when all that they shared was a secret, pure and untainted by scorn and scandal, "I love you too."

No response was forthcoming.

A waitress arrived with their order on a tray, setting it on the table, and Victoire took the opportunity to extricate her fingers from Neville's, eyes downcast as she cut and buttered their scone.

"Victoire -"

"Would you like jam on your half?" Without waiting for an answer, she began to spread the strawberry preserve with a little more force than necessary, her knuckles white around the little knife. "I remember when I was small and I came into London with Maman for the day. It was just the two of us, and I always felt so lucky – I had a beautiful mother, and people would smile and wave at me. Of course, after Dominique and Louis were born, it didn't happen quite as often..."

She paused, thinking of her brother, who would be going into his second year, and her sister, who would be going into her fourth. No doubt, both of them would be hearing much of the speculation about what she had done with Neville. Victoire hoped that neither one of them would be teased on her account, yet she knew it was naive to imagine that the other children would be merciful, because when she had been their age, there hadn't been a girl better at Hogwarts more skilled at using people's secrets and shames against them.

As she had grown up, Victoire knew that she had mellowed and, even if a few sharp edges remained, the best of her had been brought to the surface by Neville. He had made her feel like a better person, or at least a little less of a bitch, and was still being punished for it.

"You don't have to say that. Not because you feel guilty, and not because you think it's what I want to hear, okay?"

Victoire blinked, taken aback.

"Come on, Neville, we both know that I'd no more lie to make someone feel better than I would step in front of the Knight bus." When she saw that he was on the verge of interjecting with an overly-emphatic response, Victoire continued speaking rapidly. "It's the way I am, and you told me that you loved me for it, once. If that was ever true, you'll know that I always try and to be honest, eventually."

"It is true, only I hadn't expected you to admit to reciprocating – not that pride isn't a good thing." Neville was watching her in the way that he often did when he was planning on reminding her of her better qualities, and so Victoire spoke again.

"What did you expect, in that case?"

"Every scenario under the sun; when you didn't write, I half-expected you to come back on the arm of some strapping young man – if you came back at all."

"So little faith!" Victoire smiled playfully as she began to nibble on her scone.

"I was trying to be realistic. You were sent away to forget about me, to move on with your life... If anything, I have less than I had before to offer you." His brow creased in a frown.

"Offer me?" Victoire raised one, perfectly arched eyebrow, the scone pausing midway through its journey towards her painted red lips.

"I have no steady job, other than research, and if we were to commence our relationship, there would always be talk." If Neville bore a grudge, he gave no sign of it.

"Ah, well both of those are half my fault anyway." Tilting her head slightly, Victoire stared into the depths of her teacup as she addressed the wizard sitting across from her. She didn't know that she wanted an answer to her question. "The only thing I need you to offer me now is honesty; do you hate me a little bit because of everything that you've lost?"

"No." Neville watched her for several moments, waiting until Victoire next looked upwards. "I've never loved a woman like I love you. Things with Hannah hadn't been right for a few years before us, and you're not to blame for that. I should have ended it before it came to this, or had the restraint to let the opportunity pass. And you, well..."

"I took a wonderful man from her." There wasn't a trace of smugness in Victoire's voice – in fact, there was a hint of contrition. In the safety of Hogwarts, with their relationship a secret, adultery hadn't seemed like such a horrible thing; only vaguely could she have pictured the Leaky Cauldron's landlady, a voluptuous blonde with rosy flushed cheeks. It was difficult to attach the name of Hannah to this memory, and much less could Victoire think of her as Neville's wife. "And now you're getting divorced."

"It's not the end of the world. I doubt it's been easy having your friends and family know about us, either. Do you hate me for that?" When Neville spoke, it was hard for Victoire to remember why she had thought the matter at hand was a complex one – he made everything sound so simple.

"Of course not." Victoire tried to hold on to her train of thought as, for the first time in far too long, Neville caressed her cheek. "I can't hate _and_ love at the same time – at least, I can't hate you as I love you. Count yourself lucky; there aren't many who could say the same thing. Or not, since my love seems to have brought you a whole lot more misery than my anger did anybody else."

"That's not true, Victoire." He was frowning again, his conviction etching seriousness into the lines of his face.

"Mm." She leant into Neville's touch, nuzzling against his hand before pulling away, taking a drink of her tea.

"I mean it. You're so... bright. There's not a dull thing about you, and that's refreshing. I feel so much more alive with you than I had done for a long time – years."

"Liar." Daringly, Victoire licked the jam from the tip of her finger. It was easier to flirt than to dwell upon how relieved she was to find that Neville hadn't forgotten what had drawn him to her in the first place. "You're a Herbologist – you're around plants all the time, so the concept of appreciating life can't be all that new."

"You cynical little thing." Neville shook his head, drinking his coffee. "So, when will you be seeing your family?"

"Later." Toying with her string of pearls, Victoire tried not to think about Dominique's disgusted sighs whenever she had entered the room, or how every look that her younger sister hadn't managed to avoid was met with a hostile glare that said '_how could you?_'. She tried not to remember the way Louis, the boy who had always looked up to her, had acted as though she was someone other than the sister he had always admired.

"Define later – I'll stay with you until you go back... If you'd like, that is."

"A week from now, if you must know." Dropping her necklace, Victoire began to toy with what remained of her scone.

"A week?" Neville choked on what was left of his drink. "Do you – have you got anywhere to stay?"

In response, Victoire shook her head, her loose curls bobbing. She hadn't been thinking of anything beyond seeing Neville again. She hadn't wanted to.

"It's not as though I could just stroll into the Leaky Cauldron." It wasn't particularly funny – their affair, that they had hurt Hannah, and that they had sacrificed so much without the promise of being repaid by fortune – and yet all Victoire could do was giggle.

She had always been able to charm away the borders between what was distasteful and what was humorous simply by promising to allow her companions entry to the golden circle of what _she_ found amusing.

"True, that." Neville smiled, despite himself; the idea of his soon-to-be-ex-wife and Victoire coming face to face, leaving him to reconcile all of the love he felt for Victoire, the mixture of guilt and tenderness that Hannah evoked in him, all of the mistakes of the past and the uncertainties of the future, was a lot more stressful a prospect than it was funny. And yet, with Victoire grinning at him, Neville couldn't help but forget about things like consequences and expectations.

"I'll stay with you until we find a hotel for you. Or – or you could come back to my house, if you feel comfortable with the idea." He drummed his fingers on the table, using his other hand to life the empty coffee cup to his lips. It seemed that he was nervous. Sure enough, a tell-tale flush began to spread across his cheeks.

Victoire stared.

Not even she could feign nonchalance. It was like a door had been opened, leading to the scenario that she had spent her entire summer dreaming of.

"No kidding?"

"If you don't want to, it's fine; I'll pay for you to have a hotel room, once we find one. It was only a suggestion, and -"

"I'd love to, if you don't mind having me." Victoire smiled broadly, at once embodying the extremes of girlish innocence and predatory playfulness. There was an impish sparkle in her eyes as she watched Neville squirm. "I can't promise that I'm a perfect guest, though."

"No..." Neville's voice was faint. "Then again, you wouldn't be my Victoire if you were."

"'_Your'_ Victoire?" She paused, considering his choice of words. "Yes, I suppose that you're right. Do you know, I'd never imagined myself wanting to be anyone's Victoire, other than my own, of course. Shall we go?"

"If you'd like." He was watching her carefully, as though, despite Victoire having never been more firmly in his grasp, she could still dance out of his reach at any given second.

This was the point at which Victoire had often failed others, even deriving a delicious little thrill from seeing how much panic she could cause by evading another person's wishes. And yet, as she met Neville's gaze, she didn't feel the slightest temptation to leave him behind – quite the opposite. Victoire knew, in that instant, that even if she couldn't succeed in making him happy all of the time, she wanted to try.

"I would. Very much."

Neville exhaled, and together they left the cafe, hand in hand, their anxiousness and anticipation made all the more bearable by a seed of hope.

**OoOoO**

**Please leave me a review – especially if you favourite my story. Expect an update in the near future.**


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Harry Potter, Angst, Romance