*****

Trust the Morning

It was Remus who brought him in, small and quiet with that hair. He was different than the others, not worn and haunted like Remus or snarling and twitchy like the ones who worked for You Know Who. He crouched on the outskirts, vibrant and still, and Neville caught himself staring more times than was comfortable. He pushed down the disappointment when he lost sight of him after dinner, consoling himself with a fresh cup of tea. The hand on his shoulder was too gentle to be startling.

“I’m Oz,” he said, smiling.

Neville smiled back, his own name forgotten.

****

If anyone had told Oz he’d be sitting in a room full of witches ever again, he’d have considered it an odd suggestion, but after all it was difficult to surprise him. He watched and listened, because that’s what he did, and though there might have been many reasons he sought out the quiet, chubby one with the soulful eyes, what it really came down to was that he smelled good. From across the room Oz could smell him, all fresh greens and warm earth, with a strong hint of black tea. Oz closed his eyes, breathed deep and followed.

****

Oz liked Muggle music and American sandwiches, and Neville liked Oz, which worked quite well as far as Neville was concerned. Whether Oz liked Neville was a question of constant interest to him, and he often found himself in the greenhouse posing increasingly embarrassing versions of it to the less gossip-driven plants. When Remus paired them up for training, Neville was too nervous to be grateful.

“Isn’t he a Muggle?” Harry asked, his voice not quite low.

“Yes, silly,” Luna whispered, eyes wide. “But they’re in love.”

Neville’s face burned as Oz’s cool fingers wrapped around his wrist.

****

The first battle was nothing like Neville expected. If the Department of Mysteries had lasted for eternity, this raced by in a mad blur. Neville lost himself in the work of it, firing hexes and blocking curses, unable to think about anything outside a ten-foot radius. Oz slid in and out of sight, keeping to the shadows when he could, struggling between using and fighting the wolf under the surface. Afterwards he sat still as the others laughed, cautiously celebrating their first victory. I’m not afraid of it, Neville shouted, his voice lost in the din. Oz looked away.

****

Each night was drawn out and savored, as though it might be their last. In the mornings, Oz curled himself up into Neville, letting the past fall deep into the parts of his mind he couldn’t reach. Neville’s arms were solid around him–fierce and protective in a way that reminded him of how he used to hold her. Thinking about that didn’t bring out the wolf anymore, and he burrowed closer, trying not to consider what that meant.

In training, when Harry Potter touched Neville’s arm, Oz took deep breaths and pushed hard against the darkness in his chest.

****

“I don’t care.” Neville stood, arms crossed.

“I know.” Oz zipped up his duffle bag. “But I have to.” He picked the bag up off the bed.

Neville hesitated for a split second, and then he was just there, pulling Oz roughly to him and kissing him hard. His fingers tightened, making red marks on Oz’s shoulders. The kiss turned softer but no less relentless, and Oz muffled a growl as his bag slid onto the floor. Neville finally broke away, still holding Oz’s shoulders tight.

“Maybe someone else let you walk away like this,” Neville said. “But I won’t.”

****

Neville spent weekends between the greenhouse at Gran’s and the gardens at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, where he’d built a sanctuary for Oz near the back. It was for meditation and “de-wolfing” as Neville called it, and Neville had filled it with rich greenery and stepping stones, and the light scent of some flower Oz couldn’t remember the name of. The war became background for them as they became background for everyone else, intruding only as they sat up nights, waiting for each other to return safely home. Trust the morning, Neville would say. Morning always brought them home.

****

Read ‘s “missing scene,” Colours come and go.

*****

In which Oz has a wish, Watanuki is Not Like That, and Dômeki is inconveniently located as usual.

It was already late when Watanuki returned to the shop, bags overflowing with ingredients for the evening’s dinner, and he was surprised to find no one waiting to help him bring them in. Well, perhaps not *surprised*. “Typical,” he thought, “not even Maru and Moro could be bothered.”

Inside, he found Yūko-san draped over the furniture (as usual), with Maru and Moro settled at her feet, and Mokona perched on her shoulder. “Typical,” he thought, as he hefted his groceries into the kitchen, arms sore from the weight. It was only when he returned from the kitchen that he noticed the short, orange-haired man standing before her, and the taller, dark-haired man a few feet behind him.

“Watanuki,” Yūko beckoned him with lazy fingers. “This is Oz-san. He has come to us with a wish.”

The short man nodded. “Hey.”

Yūko turned back to her customer, Oz-san. “I would have thought you’d be here to ask something for yourself,” she said, “but you’re not.” She tilted her head and pointed her pipe toward him. “Do you no longer wish to be rid of it?”

If Oz-san had any confusion over what she meant, he didn’t show it. He shook his head. “Got it covered. Not worth the price.”

Yūko smiled. “So how might I help you?”

“There’s a girl,” he said, “an old friend. She’s gotten into trouble.”

“Again,” Watanuki thought he heard Oz-san’s companion mutter under his breath.

Oz-san seemed to bite back a smile. “She was working with a group in the Tōhoku region. I don’t know what happened, but something’s wrong. Her power is–” He frowned.

“I have felt it,” Yūko answered, lowering her eyes. “She’s a very powerful witch. If things are left as they are now, she will destroy many lives, as well as her own.”

“We can travel ourselves,” Oz-san continued, gesturing to his companion. “He can get us anywhere. But we need a location, and we were told you might be able to help us with that.”

Watanuki boggled. “You mean you didn’t just stumble by?” His voice was rather loud. “You actually came here on purpose?”

“Watanuki,” Yūko smiled, “he is not our average customer.” She turned again to Oz-san. “This girl. She broke your heart, and yet you still wish to help her?”

Oz-san raised his eyebrows. “He said you knew things.” He whistled, and then smiled. “It’s cool. Been a long time,” he said. “Besides–” He looked back at his companion, whose face turned pink.

Yūko nodded. “But she’s still special?”

“She’s still Willow.”

Yūko eyed him closely. “Very well,” she said, tapping her finger on her nose. “The price is great… but not too great. It is something you may be able to regain if you’re willing to work.”

Oz-san was very still. “My control.”

Yūko nodded. “You understand, then.”

“Oz–” Oz-san’s companion began to protest.

“it’s okay,” Oz-san said, his voice steady and calm in a way that reminded Watanuki maddeningly of Dômeki, “you’ll help.” Oz-san’s companion’s mouth twisted, and Watanuki felt a strong kinship to him.

“I can give you a location within a hundred meters,” Yūko said, bringing Oz-san’s attention back to her. “Is that sufficient?”

Oz-san nodded. “Yes.”

“Please,” Oz-san’s companion began, quietly. His face looked like a shy schoolboy.

“Yes?” Yūko asked.

He cleared his throat. “Neville. I’m Neville,” he said, and as his voice became stronger, he suddenly appeared a larger, almost powerful presence in the room. Yūko sat up to listen. He continued, “I know it’s an imposition, but the full moon is in four days, and if he’s lost his control–” He stopped, becoming the boy again, “I’m sorry, my Japanese… I haven’t been here as long.” He took a deep breath. “The full moon. I can help him, but I wonder–might I borrow your kitchen? I can pay you for it.”

Yūko smiled. “There’s no need for that. We can be hospitable.” She clapped her hands with glee. “And you’ll stay for dinner, too!”

“Dinner too!” Maru and Maro sing-songed together.

Neville-san’s eyes were wide, but his voice was strong again. “My supplies are low. I’ll need a few things–”

“I can get them,” Oz-san broke in.

“Wonderful!” Yūko cried. “Watanuki will take you,” she said, gesturing at him wildly. “Watanuki, we can all have a late dinner tonight, after the kitchen is free. Something special!” she said, all smiles, “And you should pick up extra sake for our guests!”

“Sake! Sake!” sang Mokona, bouncing around the room.

“What?” Watanuki protested, “But I just came back from–” Yūko was still smiling. “Fine, fine,” he said, turning to Oz-san. “Come on.”

*****

Watanuki was so busy pouting, he’d actually forgotten his companion until he spoke.

“Watanuki, right?” Oz-san asked. “Is that too familiar?”

Watanuki frowned. “It’s fine,” he said. “*Oz*,” he thought. “*I’m* certainly not going to–”

“The thing is,” Oz interrupted his thoughts, “I kind of know you.”

“What?” Watanuki shouted, “We just met today!”

“I knew Shizuka’s grandfather a long time ago,” Oz said. “Not too many priests will bother with a werewolf. Gave me these wards.” He indicated something in his right chest pocket. “I still visit when I can.”

“You call Dômeki by his first name??” Watanuki flailed.

Oz frowned. “You’re close friends, right? He talks about you.”

“We are not close!” Watanuki cried.

Oz wrinked his forehead. “Didn’t he give you half his–” he started, then stopped as he noticed the shop across the street. “Oh, we’re here,” he said, and stepped into the intersection.

“Why did she even send me if you already know where you’re going??” Watanuki cried, following after.

Oz-san shrugged. “I like the company.”

They shopped in silence then, for a while, Oz picking out items as he studied a bit of crinkled paper in his hand (mostly odd plants and spices Watanuki did not recognize), and Watanuki studying the overbearing shelf of sake, until Watanuki remembered something from earlier at Yūko’s shop that gave him pause.

“He is your close friend?” Watanuki asked, frowning. “Neville-san?”

Oz smiled. “You might say that.”

“What is…” Suddenly Neville-san’s pink face made horrifying sense. “What, you are like that?” he cried.

Oz raised his eyebrow.

Then Watanuki recalled something that nearly made him drop the sake. “You are not thinking that Dômeki… and I…” He was feeling faint. “It is nothing like that!” he shouted, “I love Himawari-chan! Oh, she is so cute! She is my perfect–” he nearly dropped the sake again. “You think I would… with someone like that?!”

Oz looked amused. “Okay.”

“What??” Watanuki was still shouting, and his arms seemed to move against his will, throwing the sake into constant peril. “I can’t believe she made me come here with you!”

“Listen, Watanuki-kun,” Oz said, his voice still maddeningly calm, “Shizuka–” he began, and then stopped, removing the sake from Watanuki’s hands. He began again, “Dômeki didn’t say that. I just thought it was obvious. I’m sorry for misunderstanding.” Somehow by now they were out of the shop, and the sake was safely in Watanuki’s shopping bag.

Watanuki was suddenly exhausted. “Let’s just go back,” he said, shoulders sinking and then tensing up again as he pondered new horrors. “Oh, now I can never look at him again!” he cried, “That awful Dômeki!”

“What did you say?” asked a voice behind him.

“Dômeki!!” Watanuki felt he might die. “Warn someone before you come up behind them!” he shouted, falling to the ground in agony (though carefully cushioning the shopping bag against his chest).

Dômeki frowned. “I was just standing here,” he said, and then turned to Watanuki’s companion. “Oz.”

“Hey,” Oz said. Both their voices were so calm and emotionless, Watanuki felt that he might vomit.

Dômeki nodded once. “You’re in town.”

“Ahhhh, I have to–” Watanuki shouted, scrambling to his feet, “You have things to talk about, I’m sure. I’ll take these things back to Neville-san at the shop.” He took Oz’s shopping bag from his hand. “You can find your way back when you’re done. Goodbye!”

Watanuki fled down the street, voices still lingering behind him.

“What’s with that guy?” Oz asked.

“Oh nothing,” Dômeki replied, “he’s just an idiot.”

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Watanuki cried, pushing his legs to move faster, his pounding heart, of course, due only to exertion.