perpetual_motion (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
perpetual_motion) wrote2009-05-20 02:59 pm
perpetual_motion) wrote2009-05-20 02:59 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Sick and Tired of What to Say [No One Listens Anyway] Harry Potter [Neville/Snape] 1/4
Title: Sick and Tired of What to Say (No One Listens Anyway) 1/4
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Neville/Snape
Rating: R [dark themes and sex; mostly the dark themes]
Summary: Wherein I take a giant leap from set-ups in book 7 to create a post-war wizarding world that isn't quite the bright shiny penny we get in the epilogue. Neville gets whumped a bit; Severus acts a touch more well-rounded; Hermione is confident and caring; a bunch of new teachers get vaguely silly names, and there are quotes from Monty Python.
Disclaimer: Lies! Oh, so many lies!
Author's Notes: This came out of nowhere and grew up fast, save the last five thousand words or so, which slowly unfolded while I waited with a measure of impatience. There are quotes from various Monty Python projects scattered throughout (and used with a purpose). Trust me on that. Title comes from the Flogging Molly song "Float", which played on repeat with a few other tunes while I pieced this thing together. Much love to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
distaff_exile who betaed the crap out of this, kept me from repeating myself, and kept me from repeating myself. You're fab, my dear.
Sick and Tired of What to Say (No One Listens Anyway) [1/4]
By Perpetual Motion
Neville jumps when he feels weight on his shoulder. He looks up from repotting orchids to find himself eye-to-eye with an owl. “Shoo,” he says quietly, glancing around to see if anyone’s come in. No one has, and the owl seems entirely unimpressed. “Go away,” Neville tries. The owl looks at him, drops the letter from its beak, and flutters outside to peck the ground for worms.
“It can’t,” Neville mutters and wipes off his hands before checking the envelope.
Neville Longbottom
Flowers for Hours
Greenhouse #4
In the Back
The Hogwarts seal looks like an unblinking eye, cataloguing every reaction Neville’s having to the sudden interference of everything he’s tried to leave behind. He breaks the seal slowly and stares at the folded papers resting in the envelope. He could close the envelope, he thinks, and pretend like he never got it. Write ‘RETURN TO SENDER’ along the back and send the owl on its way. He pulls out the papers slowly and opens them to read:
Dear Mr. Longbottom:
I hope this letter finds you well. As you may know, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is reopening in the fall. I would like to extend an invitation to you to join the teaching staff as the Professor of Herbology. Enclosed you will find all necessary information regarding your room, board, and pay as well as a contract for your perusal.
Please respond no later than July 31.
Regards,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Neville blinks. He blinks again. He looks out the side door of the greenhouse and watches the owl dig around for grubs. He rereads the letter and skims the other pages of information.
It’s been four years, he thinks. His hands shouldn’t shake at the sight of the seal. His heart shouldn’t drum at McGonagall’s handwriting. He’s twenty-six, lives in a flat, works a job everyday, and should not feel absolute fear crawl up his throat when he thinks about his last memories on the grounds of Hogwarts.
He puts the letter in the pocket of his trousers and goes back to potting orchids.
*
Two weeks later he’s reading on his couch when there’s a knock at the door. Neville opens the door to find Hermione on the doorstep, a letter in her hand. “You too, huh?” he says and invites her in with a wave of his hand.
“I said yes immediately, of course,” Hermione says. She cocks her head at Neville. “Minerva wrote back and said you hadn’t responded yet.”
Minerva, Neville thinks, as if it’s as easy as switching to first names. “I haven’t decided,” he says quietly. “Tea?”
“Sure.” Hermione follows him into the kitchen and sits at the little table there. “You’d be a great Herbology professor, you know. You’ve kept up with plants in the magical world, and you’re so patient.”
“I know I could do it,” Neville tells her. He charms the teapot warm and levitates it to the table. He carries the cup and saucers by hand. “What are you teaching?”
“Muggle Studies,” Hermione says. “I’ve already sent Minerva a list of books for the library to have on reserve for papers.”
Neville smiles. “You’ve got your year all mapped out already, don’t you?”
“Only the first semester,” Hermione admits, smiling into her teacup. She sips her tea and sets down her cup and gives Neville a serious look. “Are you or aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “There’s so many things…” He looks away from Hermione and at his kitchen with its gas stove and drying rack. His dirty dishes are lying in the sink, and his floor could use a sweeping. It would take a flick of his wand and a few quick words, and the whole place would be sparkling again. Neville stands and walks to the sink. He runs water and rinses off the breakfast dishes, placing them in the drying rack.
“What happened?” Hermione asks in the same quiet, concerned tone she’s always asked.
“Everything,” Neville answers in the same flat tone he’s always answered. “There was…” He rinses the last plate, tucks it behind the others, and dries his hand on a dish towel. “My memories of Hogwarts aren’t all victorious.”
“Neither are mine,” Hermione says, confused.
But yours are so much closer, Neville thinks and sits down. He sips his tea. “I’m thinking about it, really. It’s just…harder.”
“If you would just tell me—”
“No.” Neville cuts her off. “It’s not for telling.”
Hermione sighs and gives him a long, hard look. “Fine. Back to square one, as usual.” She stands and opens her arms. “I’ve got to go home and start packing. Try to make up your mind so that Minerva doesn’t have to scramble, will you?”
“I’ll try,” Neville promises, and hugs her goodbye. “Be careful,” he says into her hair.
“I will,” she promises quietly.
*
The teachers' train for the Hogwarts Express is only a quarter full. Hermione waves at Neville as he boards, and he waves in return, but moves down the train to find an empty car rather than join her near the front. She’ll think he’s nervous and wants to be alone. She’ll be half right.
Neville finds an empty compartment with empty compartments on either side and settles into a seat. He watches the platform and straightens from his slouch when he spots a familiar figure all in black, walking along the length of the train and boarding two cars up. It can’t be, he thinks, but he knows it is. And he knows it even more when Severus walks into his car, gives him a hard look, and sits across from him.
“Longbottom,” he drawls.
“Professor Sn-Snape,” Neville returns, and wants to curse at the stutter. He looks at Severus and tenses against a shudder. “How are you, Sir?” He asks, and finds courage in the way his voice holds.
“I am not yet dead,” Severus says, and there’s the barest bit of humor in his tone.
Neville relaxes completely. “You can dance and you can sing.”
“I cannot yet, however, dance the Highland Fling,” Severus replies.
The train gives a lurch and starts to chug forward. Neville has to grip the windowsill to keep from sliding out of his seat. He feels as awkward and clumsy as he did at eleven, searching for Trevor through the train cars. Not nearly as scared, though, in the presence of Snape. “You’ve been well, Sir?” he asks as their car clears the platform and the window fills with bright blue sky.
“Well enough,” Snape states. He stands then, shaking out his robes, and gives Neville a long, measuring look. “I seconded Minerva’s vote to make you Herbology professor.” And then he’s gone, a quick swirl of robes and the muted sound of his heels clicking on the carpeted floor of the train.
“Thank you,” Neville says at his back, too quietly for Snape to hear.
*
It took a full week after the death of Voldemort for the Death Eaters to gather up and decide to keep fighting. They’d all still been at Hogwarts—Neville and Harry and the rest—and it was only by the luck of a quick-flying owl that anyone there knew for certain that the Death Eaters were coming and that they were organized. And they had, at most, one day to plan.
Professor McGonagall had looked at the crowd of weary people around her and said, in a fierce tone, “Run if you must.” No one had moved. “Then we fight,” she’d said, and started sketching a battle plan. She’d looked up from the map of the grounds and straight at Harry. “You have to leave.”
“But—”
“They want to kill you.”
“They want to kill all of us!” Harry had tried to argue.
“Yes,” McGonagall had agreed. “But you most of all. And to get you to come out, they will do unspeakable things to the rest of us. If you’re gone—well and truly gone—it could deflect enough of them that we’ll have a chance.”
Harry had stuck out his chin and looked around the room, and Neville had been so fearful that he would refuse. “All right,” Harry had said, and his shoulders had dropped, and Ron and Hermione were already at his side. “All right.”
McGonagall had rigged a Portkey and sent them away. She’d finished her battle plans, assigned squadrons, and then pulled Neville aside. She’d handed him the Sorting Hat. “Your sword,” and it had sounded like a benediction.
The Death Eaters had approached the gates and were waiting, seething, as McGonagall walked halfway across the front lawn and levitated a fork to them. “He’s gone!” she’d yelled. “That is the Portkey!”
A Death Eater near the front of the mob grabbed the fork as it dipped towards his head. McGonagall flicked her wrist, and the fork exploded.
Neville led the charge.
*
Neville jerks awake when the train whistles. He blinks and rubs his eyes and tries to push back the memory of that battle. It’s always a blur in his dream, and all he can see for certain is the sword of Godric Gryffindor. There are versions of the dream where it simply hovers above Neville, and he can’t quite reach it.
“Lunch?” the matron asks as she wheels past with the cart.
Neville takes a sandwich and a pumpkin juice and gives her a tired smile as she rolls to the next compartment. He looks out the window and watches clouds slide over the sun. His reflection stares back at him at an angle, and he looks at his shaggy hair and round face and hears his Gran in his head, calling him handsome and sweet.
“There you are,” Hermione says, and settles across from him with a sandwich of her own. “I thought you’d have gotten over your nerves and come found me by now.”
“Fell asleep,” Neville says and takes a drink of pumpkin juice. “Have you met everyone?”
“Just nearly,” Hermione replies and unwraps her sandwich. The crusts are cut off, and it makes Neville smile. “I’ve not run into the Potions professor.”
“It’s Severus, I think,” Neville tells her, and shrugs when she gives him a surprised look. “I saw him earlier.”
Hermione’s surprised look doesn’t go away. “Since when have you called him ‘Severus’, Nev?”
“I…” Neville feels a blush climb up his face, and he drops his head so his hair covers his cheeks. “It’s his name,” he mumbles into his sandwich as he takes a bite.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione says with a small smile. “It just sounded a bit strange, is all.” She leans across the aisle and pats his hand. “I do hate making you blush. Makes me feel bad.”
“It’s okay,” Neville says. He tries to give her a smile. “Really.”
“You sure?”
“It’s weird being here,” he admits. He waves an arm at the compartment and the two of them. “I keep remembering first year.”
“Oh, first year,” Hermione half-groans and blushes. “I think back on that and what a know-it-all I was, and I just get embarrassed.”
“What do you mean, ‘was’?” Neville asks and has to pull away when Hermione swats at him.
“That’s payback for making you blush, isn’t it?” Hermione asks.
“A little,” Neville agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, Hermione,” he says after a pause. “You were the first person who was nice to me at school, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” she says, and her eyes get a little misty. “But you were the first nice person I met, too.”
They smile at each other for a moment, and they finish their dinners in silence. Before Hermione can immerse herself in whatever book Neville knows she’s carrying, he reaches into his robes and pulls out a deck of playing cards. “Poker?” he suggests.
Hermione grins. “Sure.” She transfigures the wastebin into a table and watches Neville deal. “I still haven’t figured out where you learned to play cards,” she says as she sorts her hand. “I don’t know why you just won’t tell me.”
“It’s not very often I know something you don’t,” Neville says as he discards a three and a six. “But don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He laughs when Hermione taps his foot with her own in reprimand.
*
McGonagall meets them at the edge of the lake, smiling in a way that reminds Neville of his Gran. “You’ve made it,” she says to the crowd at large, and she smiles when they all give out a tired cheer. “With the exception of Professor Snape, Professor Binns, and myself, you’re all new staff this year, and I look forward to watching you all bloom in the coming months.” She nods at Neville. “If you’ll forgive the pun, Professor Longbottom.”
“Of course,” Neville says before he swallows hard and tries to keep his knees from knocking.
“You all right?” Hermione asks quietly as they start up the shore.
“Professor,” is all Neville can get out, and he’s relieved when Hermione grabs his arm.
“I know,” she replies. “Isn’t it weird?” But her voice is excited, and Neville just feels terrified. And then Hermione’s letting go of his arm and stepping forward and asking the new Arthimancy professor about something called “Cow-Q-Less”.
“Chin up, Mr. Longbottom.”
Neville nearly jumps out of his skin and whirls around to find Severus standing a few feet behind him. “That’s not fair,” he snaps.
“You’ll live,” Snape replies, and they fall into step as they start after the group. “I wanted to speak to you about the greenhouses.”
“What about them?” Neville asks, glancing at Severus from the corner of his eye.
“Professor Sprout always kept one off-limit to students to allow me to grow some of the more dangerous and specialty herbs I require. Minerva has rebuilt all the greenhouses, and I require space to grow what I need.”
It’s weird, Neville thinks, to find comfort in the way Severus won’t actually ask for the space. “I’m going to inspect them tomorrow morning after breakfast. I can meet you there at nine.”
“That will suffice,” Severus says with a sharp nod.
Neville is about to say something more, to try to be witty, but they crest the hill and the sight of Hogwarts, lit up from top to bottom, makes him stumble and nearly fall. It’s only Severus’s quick grab at his arm that keeps him from falling. Neville stares and discovers, when he blinks, that he’s crying. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and turns away from Severus. “I shouldn’t—”
“Chin up, Mr. Longbottom,” Severus says quietly. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Neville.”
It’s such a shock that Neville can’t breathe for a moment. He turns around slowly and looks at Severus in the moonlight. Severus stares back. “Severus,” Neville says and gets a blink for his efforts. “Severus,” he says again just to say it.
“Neville,” Severus responds.
They fall into step again, and Neville tries not to see memories on the lawn. It’s difficult, more difficult than he’s even imagined, and when his foot touches the bottom step, all he can see is rubble and blood.
“It will pass,” Snape murmurs and takes the stairs as though he means to prove them wrong.
It gives Neville strength to watch him move so certainly, and he tries to copy it as he walks into the Great Hall. The dais is empty; everyone is gathered around the Ravenclaw table instead, and Neville sits next to Hermione when she waves him over.
“I was wondering if you’d wandered off,” she says, and Neville watches her eyes flick to Snape. “Were you two chatting?” She asks.
“He needs greenhouse space,” Neville tells her. “He didn’t ask for it, of course, but he managed to phrase it so it wasn’t a direct order.”
“I saw him walk in the door, and I felt eleven all over again,” Hermione confesses. “How long until you think we stop doing that?”
The ‘we’ makes Neville’s throat ache. He coughs lightly to clear it. “Maybe not for awhile. I mean, it’s kind of hard not to connect everything to when we were…” He trails off and closes his eyes as memories hit him, and it’s only the food popping onto the table that keeps Hermione from noticing. When he opens his eyes, Severus is looking at him, face impassive.
Chin up, Neville thinks and starts passing to the left.
*
Dinner turns into an impromptu party when Grace Wickersham, the new Charms Professor, throws open her satchel and pulls out bottle after bottle of Fairie Goblet champagne. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she says to Minerva, her Irish accent making the ‘r’ roll pleasantly. “My family bottles it, and I thought it was just the thing to celebrate Hogwarts opening again.”
Minerva tries to look stern for a moment, but then her eyes brighten, and she laughs a little. “I think it’s wonderful, Grace. Thank you.”
Champagne flutes pop onto the table, along with fruit and cheese, and the bottles start floating around, filling glasses and then hanging in mid-air dancing lazy circles around the table. Minerva stands and raises her glass. “To Hogwarts,” she says. “Those who were here, those who have returned, and those who will come.” She pauses and blinks a few times. “And to those who made it great.”
They drink, and Neville nearly sneezes as bubbles tickle his nose. Hermione actually does sneeze. “Every time,” she bemoans, and the table—save Severus—laughs in agreement.
Neville drinks his first glass of champagne slowly, nibbling on grapes as he takes small sips and chats a bit with the new Astronomy Professor.
“Walter Nomos,” he says with a firm handshake. “And you’re the famous Neville Longbottom.”
“Famous?” Neville asks. “Don’t know what I’ve done—”
“You pulled the sword of Godric Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat,” Nomos interrupts. “You slayed that awful snake, and from what I heard, you did a bit of shadowy stuff for the Order after Voldemort’s death.”
“Not me,” Neville says and nearly spills champagne down his front. “I never had the stomach for shadowy stuff.”
“But the sword?” Nomos asks.
“Can’t deny it,” Neville responds, and he sees in the way Nomos’s face lights up, the looks everyone gave Harry when he first arrived at Hogwarts. It makes his scalp itch, and Neville gulps the last bit of his champagne to try and calm himself. A bottle flies through the air and daintily refills his glass before he can do more than swallow and breathe.
“To you,” Nomos says after Neville’s glass is full. “And your bravery.”
Minvera overhears the toast and repeats it, and Neville is suddenly staring down the entirety of the staff, all of them smiling, save—again—Severus. “To Neville,” they say in unison, and Neville feels his face heat with a blush.
*
“You were so red!” Hermione exclaims later as they sit on the stairs and look out at the lawn.
“I hate being the center of attention like that,” Neville tells her. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“It’s different when you’re teaching,” Hermione says. “I’m sure it is.”
“But you don’t know.” Neville twitches when Hermione pokes him in the ribs.
“Don’t be so down, Nev. It’ll be all right. I know it will.” Hermione leans against him and stares up at the sky. “I heard from Ron and Harry,” she says. “They’re in Timbuktu or Tahiti. Ron’s handwriting was illegible for the last part of the note. He said they’ll be back in England for Christmas.”
“That’ll be nice,” Neville replies. “Do you think they’ll stop travelling soon?”
“I hope,” Hermione says, and her voice is very quiet. “I don’t know what Harry’s looking for. I wish I did.”
Neville’s tempted to make a guess, but he holds his tongue and puts an arm around Hermione for a hug. “They’ll be back for Christmas. Maybe Harry’ll have found it by then.”
“I think he’s just looking,” Hermione says after a long pause. “And I think Ron’s with him because he’s a little scared that Harry won’t come back if he doesn’t have someone reminding him we’re here.”
“Maybe,” Neville murmurs. “But Ron’s with him. They’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Hermione agrees, and Neville watches as she pulls herself back together. “They’ll be fine.” She gives him a smile that’s a little desperate, and Neville wonders if that’s how he looks most of the time.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says and helps Hermione up the stairs. They hug goodnight in the entryway. Hermione’s rooms are up a flight and to the left. Neville’s are down a flight and to the right. He takes the stairs slowly, hand trailing along the wall, and looks for cracked bricks or dented armor and sees only smooth stone and a streak of silver polish on one knight’s chest. He rubs at the polish with his thumb and wonders how the rubble and ruin he left became Hogwarts again so quickly.
*
At the end of the battle, Neville found himself standing back-to-back with Snape. They weren’t the last ones alive, Neville knew, but looking around, he didn’t feel entirely certain. “Professor,” he said quietly.
“Quiet,” Snape hissed, and they listened together for a pop or a hiss. The front lawn was eerily silent, and Neville adjusted the grip on his sword as he looked around for danger. There were bodies everywhere, and when Neville dropped to his knees from exhaustion, all he could smell was blood.
“Professor,” Neville whispered, and then he vomited, hands digging into the dirt next to someone’s head. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe and looked up when Snape walked around him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Get up,” Snape said. He thumped Neville on the head with his wand. “Up. Now.”
Neville staggered to his feet and jumped in surprise when Snape grabbed his elbow to steady him. “I can—”
“It’s not over,” Snape said sharply. “But it’s over for now.” He pulled on Neville’s arm and led him along, tripping over bodies and rubble until they were at the front steps. McGonagall was there, a ragged, burned hole on the front of her robes.
“Report,” she said to Severus and sounded impossibly fresh and calm.
“They’re dead or running,” Snape replied. He let go of Neville’s arm and pushed his sweaty hair out of his face. “What next?”
McGonagall surveyed the carnage on the lawn. She looked at Neville and Snape, and breathed out. “We’ve got three of them inside. We’re going to ask them questions.” She looked at Neville again. “Mr. Longbottom, if you’d—”
“I’m coming,” Neville said. He heaved his sword up and laid it flat against his shoulder. “Where are they?”
*
He dreams about the alcove near the dungeons where they’d tied them up. He sees them yelling and cursing, watches as they writhe in pain from potions Severus force feeds them. Sees McGonagall watching him from the corner of her eye, and shows her he can handle it by grabbing one of the Death Eaters by the neck, pushing the point of the sword against his chin and saying, very slowly, “I am Neville Longbottom. My parents are Alice and Frank.”
He dreams about the way the man’s eyes widened and his fingers scrabbled, and how McGonagall pulled his arm away and said, softly, “That will do, Mr. Longbottom.”
*
It’s sunny when Neville wakes, and he spends time watching the light bounce off the drawer pulls of his dresser before he throws off the covers and steps out of bed. He stretches and rubs his face. There’s a teapot on his sideboard, steam curling from the spout, and he waves his wand lazily so it will pour him a cup. He showers and shaves and combs his hair. The tea is just sweet enough, and he sips it as he walks around his rooms and wonders where he’s going to find enough books to fill the empty shelves. The chair by the fireplace creaks as he sits in it, but he finds that he likes the sound.
He tries very hard not to think about his dream, and when his cup is empty, he leaves it on an end table and makes his way to the Great Hall. The house elves have set up a buffet, with plates near the door and food spanning almost half the length of the hall. Neville picks up a plate and helps himself to kippers and eggs, a flaky warm biscuit, and another cup of tea. He sits at the Gryffindor table and smiles at Wickersham when she stumbles in the door.
“Neville, isn’t it?” She asks as she sits across from him.
“Yes,” he says.
“Good. I’m bloody awful with names,” she tells him in a near-whisper, and Neville feels himself smile.
“Me, too,” he admits. “But it is Grace, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she says with a smile. “So we’re both doing fine for this morning.” Grace turns her head when she hears someone enter the Great Hall. “And who is that?” she whispers to Neville.
“That’s Professor Snape,” Neville says. “You won’t forget his name, trust me.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Severus,” Neville supplies without thinking, and as Grace takes in a deep breath, he suddenly wishes he had.
“Severus!” Grace says with a wave. “We’re over here!”
“I can see,” Snape responds, rolling his eyes at her theatrics. “And that is precisely why I will be over here.” He sits at the Slytherin table, back to them, and starts to eat his breakfast.
“Not a morning person?” Grace asks, looking completely unembarrassed.
“He’s just…not,” Neville says and wonders how to explain. “He’s—”
“Professor Snape,” Nomos says as he joins their table. “Didn’t you have him, Grace?”
“My parents tutored me at home,” Grace explains. “Mum and Dad were here during the first reign, and it scared them to bits.”
“I just missed it,” Nomos tells her. “I’d finished the year before.” He smiles at Neville. “And you, of course, were right in the thick of the second wave.” Nomos leans over the table and throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “Tell me, what was it like, having a Death Eater for a professor?”
“Who’s a Death Eater?” Grace asks. She looks behind herself at Snape, and her eyebrows go up. “He…He’s not! He can’t be! The Prophet says they’re all locked away or dead.”
Neville nearly chokes as he swallows his biscuit. “He’s not,” he tells Grace. “And he hasn’t been for a very long time.”
“He’s ‘reformed’,” Nomos says with air quotes and a roll of his eyes. “Now he only slaughters innocent people on weekends.”
“I never slaughtered innocents,” Snape says from directly behind Nomos. “Only those who justly deserved to be put down like mangy curs.”
Nomos nearly jumps from his chair, and Neville doesn’t quite manage to stifle his laugh. “Severus,” he greets with a badly-hidden smile. “Ready to look at the greenhouses?”
“If you can pull yourself away from such stimulating conversation, Mr. Longbottom.” Snape flicks his eyes at Nomos and sneers when Nomos tries to glare. “Bigger, stronger, and uglier than you, Mr. Nomos,” he says and turns in a swirl of robes.
“You could have said something!” Nomos practically yells at Neville.
Neville holds out his plate to offer Nomos his kippers. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t feel it. “He’s sneaky like that.”
“He must be terrifying in class,” Grace says, stealing half the kippers before Nomos can lift his fork.
“Incredibly,” Neville agrees and stands up. He gives them both a nod, walks out of the Great Hall and down the front steps. Severus is waiting next to the greenhouses, arms crossed and glaring at the horizon like it means to start a fight. Neville stands next to him and shades his eyes with his hand. “Which one?” he asks.
“What?” Snape asks, the ‘t’ nearly reverberating in the quiet.
“Which tree are you going to set on fire?”
“I’ve not yet decided.”
“I like the scraggly one on the left.”
“Perhaps.”
Neville looks away from the trees and watches Severus’s profile. “Did you have a greenhouse in mind?” he asks.
Severus reaches into his robe and removes a small roll of parchment. He taps it with his wand; it unfurls and hangs in the air where they can both read it. “I require the ability to micro-climate and at least 200 square meters of space.”
“All the greenhouses are at least 200 square meters,” Neville says, squinting at Severus’s notes. “Pro—Minerva sent me schematics when I agreed to come on staff.” He doesn’t look over to see if Severus caught his slip, but he feels himself flush from embarrassment anyway. “The micro-climate greenhouses are on the other end,” Neville says with a wave. “You can head that way and look around if you like. I was going to get a look around the classroom spaces.”
Snape walks down the path without a word, and Neville watches him go for a moment before he turns into the first greenhouse. It’s humid inside, mostly-empty pots sitting in wait for Neville and the students. He stands for a moment in Professor’s Sprout customary spot—near the door, but slightly to the left—and feels a light breeze hit him square in the back. He remembers the heat in the greenhouse year-round, and he wonders how many years it took before Professor Sprout found just the right spot. He turns to leave and spots a small square of dark blue glass.
Neville doesn’t know how long he stares at it, but he jumps when Severus clears his throat in the doorway.
“The second greenhouse from the end will serve my purposes,” he says.
Neville nods. “That should be fine. I can help you—” He hiccups and covers his mouth with his hand. “Excuse—” His voice cracks. He stares at the ground and watches his tears fall onto the stone floor. “I found her,” he whispers. “She wasn’t ten feet from here, protecting the plants from them…” Neville looks at the plaque, at the solid, square font used to memorialize the only professor who never seemed fearful he was going to cause mass destruction. “And I was on the other side of the grounds pretending to be a war hero.”
“You are a war hero,” Severus says firmly. “You did not plan to be, and you certainly showed no aptitude for it when you arrived here, but you are now a war hero.”
“I don’t want to be,” Neville can’t swallow the sob that comes up, and he presses his hands against the greenhouse wall to keep from crumpling to his knees. “My mum and dad, they’re war heroes. Harry and Ron and Hermione, everyone in the Order. You—”
“I am nowhere close,” Severus cuts in. “I survived.” He steps forward and touches Neville’s shoulder. “And you can decide to do the same, or you can wallow.”
“I miss…” Neville looks at Severus, and they stare at one another for a long, quiet moment. “I miss.”
“Everyone does,” Severus tells him. “You are not unique there.”
“Thank Merlin,” Neville breathes out. He watches Severus watch him. He looks at Severus’s hand, still on his shoulder, and then he steps forward, tilts his head, and kisses Severus on the mouth. He’s terrified in the moment before Severus kisses him back, so lightly he almost misses it. “Miss,” Neville murmurs, and then Severus is pulling away.
“The second to last greenhouse in the row, Mr. Longbottom,” Severus says, voice firm, and then he’s gone.
Neville stands still and listens to Severus walk away, the click of his shoes on the stone path that leads to the greenhouses slowly fading away. He looks around the greenhouse—his classroom—and removes his robe. He hangs it on a hook by the door and rolls up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. There’s work to be done, he thinks, and no one else to do it. He starts potting Mandrakes.
Part Two
Author: Perpetual Motion
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Neville/Snape
Rating: R [dark themes and sex; mostly the dark themes]
Summary: Wherein I take a giant leap from set-ups in book 7 to create a post-war wizarding world that isn't quite the bright shiny penny we get in the epilogue. Neville gets whumped a bit; Severus acts a touch more well-rounded; Hermione is confident and caring; a bunch of new teachers get vaguely silly names, and there are quotes from Monty Python.
Disclaimer: Lies! Oh, so many lies!
Author's Notes: This came out of nowhere and grew up fast, save the last five thousand words or so, which slowly unfolded while I waited with a measure of impatience. There are quotes from various Monty Python projects scattered throughout (and used with a purpose). Trust me on that. Title comes from the Flogging Molly song "Float", which played on repeat with a few other tunes while I pieced this thing together. Much love to
distaff_exile who betaed the crap out of this, kept me from repeating myself, and kept me from repeating myself. You're fab, my dear.Sick and Tired of What to Say (No One Listens Anyway) [1/4]
By Perpetual Motion
Neville jumps when he feels weight on his shoulder. He looks up from repotting orchids to find himself eye-to-eye with an owl. “Shoo,” he says quietly, glancing around to see if anyone’s come in. No one has, and the owl seems entirely unimpressed. “Go away,” Neville tries. The owl looks at him, drops the letter from its beak, and flutters outside to peck the ground for worms.
“It can’t,” Neville mutters and wipes off his hands before checking the envelope.
Neville Longbottom
Flowers for Hours
Greenhouse #4
In the Back
The Hogwarts seal looks like an unblinking eye, cataloguing every reaction Neville’s having to the sudden interference of everything he’s tried to leave behind. He breaks the seal slowly and stares at the folded papers resting in the envelope. He could close the envelope, he thinks, and pretend like he never got it. Write ‘RETURN TO SENDER’ along the back and send the owl on its way. He pulls out the papers slowly and opens them to read:
Dear Mr. Longbottom:
I hope this letter finds you well. As you may know, the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is reopening in the fall. I would like to extend an invitation to you to join the teaching staff as the Professor of Herbology. Enclosed you will find all necessary information regarding your room, board, and pay as well as a contract for your perusal.
Please respond no later than July 31.
Regards,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Neville blinks. He blinks again. He looks out the side door of the greenhouse and watches the owl dig around for grubs. He rereads the letter and skims the other pages of information.
It’s been four years, he thinks. His hands shouldn’t shake at the sight of the seal. His heart shouldn’t drum at McGonagall’s handwriting. He’s twenty-six, lives in a flat, works a job everyday, and should not feel absolute fear crawl up his throat when he thinks about his last memories on the grounds of Hogwarts.
He puts the letter in the pocket of his trousers and goes back to potting orchids.
*
Two weeks later he’s reading on his couch when there’s a knock at the door. Neville opens the door to find Hermione on the doorstep, a letter in her hand. “You too, huh?” he says and invites her in with a wave of his hand.
“I said yes immediately, of course,” Hermione says. She cocks her head at Neville. “Minerva wrote back and said you hadn’t responded yet.”
Minerva, Neville thinks, as if it’s as easy as switching to first names. “I haven’t decided,” he says quietly. “Tea?”
“Sure.” Hermione follows him into the kitchen and sits at the little table there. “You’d be a great Herbology professor, you know. You’ve kept up with plants in the magical world, and you’re so patient.”
“I know I could do it,” Neville tells her. He charms the teapot warm and levitates it to the table. He carries the cup and saucers by hand. “What are you teaching?”
“Muggle Studies,” Hermione says. “I’ve already sent Minerva a list of books for the library to have on reserve for papers.”
Neville smiles. “You’ve got your year all mapped out already, don’t you?”
“Only the first semester,” Hermione admits, smiling into her teacup. She sips her tea and sets down her cup and gives Neville a serious look. “Are you or aren’t you?”
“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “There’s so many things…” He looks away from Hermione and at his kitchen with its gas stove and drying rack. His dirty dishes are lying in the sink, and his floor could use a sweeping. It would take a flick of his wand and a few quick words, and the whole place would be sparkling again. Neville stands and walks to the sink. He runs water and rinses off the breakfast dishes, placing them in the drying rack.
“What happened?” Hermione asks in the same quiet, concerned tone she’s always asked.
“Everything,” Neville answers in the same flat tone he’s always answered. “There was…” He rinses the last plate, tucks it behind the others, and dries his hand on a dish towel. “My memories of Hogwarts aren’t all victorious.”
“Neither are mine,” Hermione says, confused.
But yours are so much closer, Neville thinks and sits down. He sips his tea. “I’m thinking about it, really. It’s just…harder.”
“If you would just tell me—”
“No.” Neville cuts her off. “It’s not for telling.”
Hermione sighs and gives him a long, hard look. “Fine. Back to square one, as usual.” She stands and opens her arms. “I’ve got to go home and start packing. Try to make up your mind so that Minerva doesn’t have to scramble, will you?”
“I’ll try,” Neville promises, and hugs her goodbye. “Be careful,” he says into her hair.
“I will,” she promises quietly.
*
The teachers' train for the Hogwarts Express is only a quarter full. Hermione waves at Neville as he boards, and he waves in return, but moves down the train to find an empty car rather than join her near the front. She’ll think he’s nervous and wants to be alone. She’ll be half right.
Neville finds an empty compartment with empty compartments on either side and settles into a seat. He watches the platform and straightens from his slouch when he spots a familiar figure all in black, walking along the length of the train and boarding two cars up. It can’t be, he thinks, but he knows it is. And he knows it even more when Severus walks into his car, gives him a hard look, and sits across from him.
“Longbottom,” he drawls.
“Professor Sn-Snape,” Neville returns, and wants to curse at the stutter. He looks at Severus and tenses against a shudder. “How are you, Sir?” He asks, and finds courage in the way his voice holds.
“I am not yet dead,” Severus says, and there’s the barest bit of humor in his tone.
Neville relaxes completely. “You can dance and you can sing.”
“I cannot yet, however, dance the Highland Fling,” Severus replies.
The train gives a lurch and starts to chug forward. Neville has to grip the windowsill to keep from sliding out of his seat. He feels as awkward and clumsy as he did at eleven, searching for Trevor through the train cars. Not nearly as scared, though, in the presence of Snape. “You’ve been well, Sir?” he asks as their car clears the platform and the window fills with bright blue sky.
“Well enough,” Snape states. He stands then, shaking out his robes, and gives Neville a long, measuring look. “I seconded Minerva’s vote to make you Herbology professor.” And then he’s gone, a quick swirl of robes and the muted sound of his heels clicking on the carpeted floor of the train.
“Thank you,” Neville says at his back, too quietly for Snape to hear.
*
It took a full week after the death of Voldemort for the Death Eaters to gather up and decide to keep fighting. They’d all still been at Hogwarts—Neville and Harry and the rest—and it was only by the luck of a quick-flying owl that anyone there knew for certain that the Death Eaters were coming and that they were organized. And they had, at most, one day to plan.
Professor McGonagall had looked at the crowd of weary people around her and said, in a fierce tone, “Run if you must.” No one had moved. “Then we fight,” she’d said, and started sketching a battle plan. She’d looked up from the map of the grounds and straight at Harry. “You have to leave.”
“But—”
“They want to kill you.”
“They want to kill all of us!” Harry had tried to argue.
“Yes,” McGonagall had agreed. “But you most of all. And to get you to come out, they will do unspeakable things to the rest of us. If you’re gone—well and truly gone—it could deflect enough of them that we’ll have a chance.”
Harry had stuck out his chin and looked around the room, and Neville had been so fearful that he would refuse. “All right,” Harry had said, and his shoulders had dropped, and Ron and Hermione were already at his side. “All right.”
McGonagall had rigged a Portkey and sent them away. She’d finished her battle plans, assigned squadrons, and then pulled Neville aside. She’d handed him the Sorting Hat. “Your sword,” and it had sounded like a benediction.
The Death Eaters had approached the gates and were waiting, seething, as McGonagall walked halfway across the front lawn and levitated a fork to them. “He’s gone!” she’d yelled. “That is the Portkey!”
A Death Eater near the front of the mob grabbed the fork as it dipped towards his head. McGonagall flicked her wrist, and the fork exploded.
Neville led the charge.
*
Neville jerks awake when the train whistles. He blinks and rubs his eyes and tries to push back the memory of that battle. It’s always a blur in his dream, and all he can see for certain is the sword of Godric Gryffindor. There are versions of the dream where it simply hovers above Neville, and he can’t quite reach it.
“Lunch?” the matron asks as she wheels past with the cart.
Neville takes a sandwich and a pumpkin juice and gives her a tired smile as she rolls to the next compartment. He looks out the window and watches clouds slide over the sun. His reflection stares back at him at an angle, and he looks at his shaggy hair and round face and hears his Gran in his head, calling him handsome and sweet.
“There you are,” Hermione says, and settles across from him with a sandwich of her own. “I thought you’d have gotten over your nerves and come found me by now.”
“Fell asleep,” Neville says and takes a drink of pumpkin juice. “Have you met everyone?”
“Just nearly,” Hermione replies and unwraps her sandwich. The crusts are cut off, and it makes Neville smile. “I’ve not run into the Potions professor.”
“It’s Severus, I think,” Neville tells her, and shrugs when she gives him a surprised look. “I saw him earlier.”
Hermione’s surprised look doesn’t go away. “Since when have you called him ‘Severus’, Nev?”
“I…” Neville feels a blush climb up his face, and he drops his head so his hair covers his cheeks. “It’s his name,” he mumbles into his sandwich as he takes a bite.
“I’m sorry,” Hermione says with a small smile. “It just sounded a bit strange, is all.” She leans across the aisle and pats his hand. “I do hate making you blush. Makes me feel bad.”
“It’s okay,” Neville says. He tries to give her a smile. “Really.”
“You sure?”
“It’s weird being here,” he admits. He waves an arm at the compartment and the two of them. “I keep remembering first year.”
“Oh, first year,” Hermione half-groans and blushes. “I think back on that and what a know-it-all I was, and I just get embarrassed.”
“What do you mean, ‘was’?” Neville asks and has to pull away when Hermione swats at him.
“That’s payback for making you blush, isn’t it?” Hermione asks.
“A little,” Neville agrees. “I’m glad you’re here, Hermione,” he says after a pause. “You were the first person who was nice to me at school, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” she says, and her eyes get a little misty. “But you were the first nice person I met, too.”
They smile at each other for a moment, and they finish their dinners in silence. Before Hermione can immerse herself in whatever book Neville knows she’s carrying, he reaches into his robes and pulls out a deck of playing cards. “Poker?” he suggests.
Hermione grins. “Sure.” She transfigures the wastebin into a table and watches Neville deal. “I still haven’t figured out where you learned to play cards,” she says as she sorts her hand. “I don’t know why you just won’t tell me.”
“It’s not very often I know something you don’t,” Neville says as he discards a three and a six. “But don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He laughs when Hermione taps his foot with her own in reprimand.
*
McGonagall meets them at the edge of the lake, smiling in a way that reminds Neville of his Gran. “You’ve made it,” she says to the crowd at large, and she smiles when they all give out a tired cheer. “With the exception of Professor Snape, Professor Binns, and myself, you’re all new staff this year, and I look forward to watching you all bloom in the coming months.” She nods at Neville. “If you’ll forgive the pun, Professor Longbottom.”
“Of course,” Neville says before he swallows hard and tries to keep his knees from knocking.
“You all right?” Hermione asks quietly as they start up the shore.
“Professor,” is all Neville can get out, and he’s relieved when Hermione grabs his arm.
“I know,” she replies. “Isn’t it weird?” But her voice is excited, and Neville just feels terrified. And then Hermione’s letting go of his arm and stepping forward and asking the new Arthimancy professor about something called “Cow-Q-Less”.
“Chin up, Mr. Longbottom.”
Neville nearly jumps out of his skin and whirls around to find Severus standing a few feet behind him. “That’s not fair,” he snaps.
“You’ll live,” Snape replies, and they fall into step as they start after the group. “I wanted to speak to you about the greenhouses.”
“What about them?” Neville asks, glancing at Severus from the corner of his eye.
“Professor Sprout always kept one off-limit to students to allow me to grow some of the more dangerous and specialty herbs I require. Minerva has rebuilt all the greenhouses, and I require space to grow what I need.”
It’s weird, Neville thinks, to find comfort in the way Severus won’t actually ask for the space. “I’m going to inspect them tomorrow morning after breakfast. I can meet you there at nine.”
“That will suffice,” Severus says with a sharp nod.
Neville is about to say something more, to try to be witty, but they crest the hill and the sight of Hogwarts, lit up from top to bottom, makes him stumble and nearly fall. It’s only Severus’s quick grab at his arm that keeps him from falling. Neville stares and discovers, when he blinks, that he’s crying. He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his robe and turns away from Severus. “I shouldn’t—”
“Chin up, Mr. Longbottom,” Severus says quietly. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “Neville.”
It’s such a shock that Neville can’t breathe for a moment. He turns around slowly and looks at Severus in the moonlight. Severus stares back. “Severus,” Neville says and gets a blink for his efforts. “Severus,” he says again just to say it.
“Neville,” Severus responds.
They fall into step again, and Neville tries not to see memories on the lawn. It’s difficult, more difficult than he’s even imagined, and when his foot touches the bottom step, all he can see is rubble and blood.
“It will pass,” Snape murmurs and takes the stairs as though he means to prove them wrong.
It gives Neville strength to watch him move so certainly, and he tries to copy it as he walks into the Great Hall. The dais is empty; everyone is gathered around the Ravenclaw table instead, and Neville sits next to Hermione when she waves him over.
“I was wondering if you’d wandered off,” she says, and Neville watches her eyes flick to Snape. “Were you two chatting?” She asks.
“He needs greenhouse space,” Neville tells her. “He didn’t ask for it, of course, but he managed to phrase it so it wasn’t a direct order.”
“I saw him walk in the door, and I felt eleven all over again,” Hermione confesses. “How long until you think we stop doing that?”
The ‘we’ makes Neville’s throat ache. He coughs lightly to clear it. “Maybe not for awhile. I mean, it’s kind of hard not to connect everything to when we were…” He trails off and closes his eyes as memories hit him, and it’s only the food popping onto the table that keeps Hermione from noticing. When he opens his eyes, Severus is looking at him, face impassive.
Chin up, Neville thinks and starts passing to the left.
*
Dinner turns into an impromptu party when Grace Wickersham, the new Charms Professor, throws open her satchel and pulls out bottle after bottle of Fairie Goblet champagne. “I hope you’ll forgive me,” she says to Minerva, her Irish accent making the ‘r’ roll pleasantly. “My family bottles it, and I thought it was just the thing to celebrate Hogwarts opening again.”
Minerva tries to look stern for a moment, but then her eyes brighten, and she laughs a little. “I think it’s wonderful, Grace. Thank you.”
Champagne flutes pop onto the table, along with fruit and cheese, and the bottles start floating around, filling glasses and then hanging in mid-air dancing lazy circles around the table. Minerva stands and raises her glass. “To Hogwarts,” she says. “Those who were here, those who have returned, and those who will come.” She pauses and blinks a few times. “And to those who made it great.”
They drink, and Neville nearly sneezes as bubbles tickle his nose. Hermione actually does sneeze. “Every time,” she bemoans, and the table—save Severus—laughs in agreement.
Neville drinks his first glass of champagne slowly, nibbling on grapes as he takes small sips and chats a bit with the new Astronomy Professor.
“Walter Nomos,” he says with a firm handshake. “And you’re the famous Neville Longbottom.”
“Famous?” Neville asks. “Don’t know what I’ve done—”
“You pulled the sword of Godric Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat,” Nomos interrupts. “You slayed that awful snake, and from what I heard, you did a bit of shadowy stuff for the Order after Voldemort’s death.”
“Not me,” Neville says and nearly spills champagne down his front. “I never had the stomach for shadowy stuff.”
“But the sword?” Nomos asks.
“Can’t deny it,” Neville responds, and he sees in the way Nomos’s face lights up, the looks everyone gave Harry when he first arrived at Hogwarts. It makes his scalp itch, and Neville gulps the last bit of his champagne to try and calm himself. A bottle flies through the air and daintily refills his glass before he can do more than swallow and breathe.
“To you,” Nomos says after Neville’s glass is full. “And your bravery.”
Minvera overhears the toast and repeats it, and Neville is suddenly staring down the entirety of the staff, all of them smiling, save—again—Severus. “To Neville,” they say in unison, and Neville feels his face heat with a blush.
*
“You were so red!” Hermione exclaims later as they sit on the stairs and look out at the lawn.
“I hate being the center of attention like that,” Neville tells her. “I don’t know why I’m here.”
“It’s different when you’re teaching,” Hermione says. “I’m sure it is.”
“But you don’t know.” Neville twitches when Hermione pokes him in the ribs.
“Don’t be so down, Nev. It’ll be all right. I know it will.” Hermione leans against him and stares up at the sky. “I heard from Ron and Harry,” she says. “They’re in Timbuktu or Tahiti. Ron’s handwriting was illegible for the last part of the note. He said they’ll be back in England for Christmas.”
“That’ll be nice,” Neville replies. “Do you think they’ll stop travelling soon?”
“I hope,” Hermione says, and her voice is very quiet. “I don’t know what Harry’s looking for. I wish I did.”
Neville’s tempted to make a guess, but he holds his tongue and puts an arm around Hermione for a hug. “They’ll be back for Christmas. Maybe Harry’ll have found it by then.”
“I think he’s just looking,” Hermione says after a long pause. “And I think Ron’s with him because he’s a little scared that Harry won’t come back if he doesn’t have someone reminding him we’re here.”
“Maybe,” Neville murmurs. “But Ron’s with him. They’ll be okay.”
“Yeah,” Hermione agrees, and Neville watches as she pulls herself back together. “They’ll be fine.” She gives him a smile that’s a little desperate, and Neville wonders if that’s how he looks most of the time.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says and helps Hermione up the stairs. They hug goodnight in the entryway. Hermione’s rooms are up a flight and to the left. Neville’s are down a flight and to the right. He takes the stairs slowly, hand trailing along the wall, and looks for cracked bricks or dented armor and sees only smooth stone and a streak of silver polish on one knight’s chest. He rubs at the polish with his thumb and wonders how the rubble and ruin he left became Hogwarts again so quickly.
*
At the end of the battle, Neville found himself standing back-to-back with Snape. They weren’t the last ones alive, Neville knew, but looking around, he didn’t feel entirely certain. “Professor,” he said quietly.
“Quiet,” Snape hissed, and they listened together for a pop or a hiss. The front lawn was eerily silent, and Neville adjusted the grip on his sword as he looked around for danger. There were bodies everywhere, and when Neville dropped to his knees from exhaustion, all he could smell was blood.
“Professor,” Neville whispered, and then he vomited, hands digging into the dirt next to someone’s head. He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe and looked up when Snape walked around him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Get up,” Snape said. He thumped Neville on the head with his wand. “Up. Now.”
Neville staggered to his feet and jumped in surprise when Snape grabbed his elbow to steady him. “I can—”
“It’s not over,” Snape said sharply. “But it’s over for now.” He pulled on Neville’s arm and led him along, tripping over bodies and rubble until they were at the front steps. McGonagall was there, a ragged, burned hole on the front of her robes.
“Report,” she said to Severus and sounded impossibly fresh and calm.
“They’re dead or running,” Snape replied. He let go of Neville’s arm and pushed his sweaty hair out of his face. “What next?”
McGonagall surveyed the carnage on the lawn. She looked at Neville and Snape, and breathed out. “We’ve got three of them inside. We’re going to ask them questions.” She looked at Neville again. “Mr. Longbottom, if you’d—”
“I’m coming,” Neville said. He heaved his sword up and laid it flat against his shoulder. “Where are they?”
*
He dreams about the alcove near the dungeons where they’d tied them up. He sees them yelling and cursing, watches as they writhe in pain from potions Severus force feeds them. Sees McGonagall watching him from the corner of her eye, and shows her he can handle it by grabbing one of the Death Eaters by the neck, pushing the point of the sword against his chin and saying, very slowly, “I am Neville Longbottom. My parents are Alice and Frank.”
He dreams about the way the man’s eyes widened and his fingers scrabbled, and how McGonagall pulled his arm away and said, softly, “That will do, Mr. Longbottom.”
*
It’s sunny when Neville wakes, and he spends time watching the light bounce off the drawer pulls of his dresser before he throws off the covers and steps out of bed. He stretches and rubs his face. There’s a teapot on his sideboard, steam curling from the spout, and he waves his wand lazily so it will pour him a cup. He showers and shaves and combs his hair. The tea is just sweet enough, and he sips it as he walks around his rooms and wonders where he’s going to find enough books to fill the empty shelves. The chair by the fireplace creaks as he sits in it, but he finds that he likes the sound.
He tries very hard not to think about his dream, and when his cup is empty, he leaves it on an end table and makes his way to the Great Hall. The house elves have set up a buffet, with plates near the door and food spanning almost half the length of the hall. Neville picks up a plate and helps himself to kippers and eggs, a flaky warm biscuit, and another cup of tea. He sits at the Gryffindor table and smiles at Wickersham when she stumbles in the door.
“Neville, isn’t it?” She asks as she sits across from him.
“Yes,” he says.
“Good. I’m bloody awful with names,” she tells him in a near-whisper, and Neville feels himself smile.
“Me, too,” he admits. “But it is Grace, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she says with a smile. “So we’re both doing fine for this morning.” Grace turns her head when she hears someone enter the Great Hall. “And who is that?” she whispers to Neville.
“That’s Professor Snape,” Neville says. “You won’t forget his name, trust me.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Severus,” Neville supplies without thinking, and as Grace takes in a deep breath, he suddenly wishes he had.
“Severus!” Grace says with a wave. “We’re over here!”
“I can see,” Snape responds, rolling his eyes at her theatrics. “And that is precisely why I will be over here.” He sits at the Slytherin table, back to them, and starts to eat his breakfast.
“Not a morning person?” Grace asks, looking completely unembarrassed.
“He’s just…not,” Neville says and wonders how to explain. “He’s—”
“Professor Snape,” Nomos says as he joins their table. “Didn’t you have him, Grace?”
“My parents tutored me at home,” Grace explains. “Mum and Dad were here during the first reign, and it scared them to bits.”
“I just missed it,” Nomos tells her. “I’d finished the year before.” He smiles at Neville. “And you, of course, were right in the thick of the second wave.” Nomos leans over the table and throws a quick glance over his shoulder. “Tell me, what was it like, having a Death Eater for a professor?”
“Who’s a Death Eater?” Grace asks. She looks behind herself at Snape, and her eyebrows go up. “He…He’s not! He can’t be! The Prophet says they’re all locked away or dead.”
Neville nearly chokes as he swallows his biscuit. “He’s not,” he tells Grace. “And he hasn’t been for a very long time.”
“He’s ‘reformed’,” Nomos says with air quotes and a roll of his eyes. “Now he only slaughters innocent people on weekends.”
“I never slaughtered innocents,” Snape says from directly behind Nomos. “Only those who justly deserved to be put down like mangy curs.”
Nomos nearly jumps from his chair, and Neville doesn’t quite manage to stifle his laugh. “Severus,” he greets with a badly-hidden smile. “Ready to look at the greenhouses?”
“If you can pull yourself away from such stimulating conversation, Mr. Longbottom.” Snape flicks his eyes at Nomos and sneers when Nomos tries to glare. “Bigger, stronger, and uglier than you, Mr. Nomos,” he says and turns in a swirl of robes.
“You could have said something!” Nomos practically yells at Neville.
Neville holds out his plate to offer Nomos his kippers. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t feel it. “He’s sneaky like that.”
“He must be terrifying in class,” Grace says, stealing half the kippers before Nomos can lift his fork.
“Incredibly,” Neville agrees and stands up. He gives them both a nod, walks out of the Great Hall and down the front steps. Severus is waiting next to the greenhouses, arms crossed and glaring at the horizon like it means to start a fight. Neville stands next to him and shades his eyes with his hand. “Which one?” he asks.
“What?” Snape asks, the ‘t’ nearly reverberating in the quiet.
“Which tree are you going to set on fire?”
“I’ve not yet decided.”
“I like the scraggly one on the left.”
“Perhaps.”
Neville looks away from the trees and watches Severus’s profile. “Did you have a greenhouse in mind?” he asks.
Severus reaches into his robe and removes a small roll of parchment. He taps it with his wand; it unfurls and hangs in the air where they can both read it. “I require the ability to micro-climate and at least 200 square meters of space.”
“All the greenhouses are at least 200 square meters,” Neville says, squinting at Severus’s notes. “Pro—Minerva sent me schematics when I agreed to come on staff.” He doesn’t look over to see if Severus caught his slip, but he feels himself flush from embarrassment anyway. “The micro-climate greenhouses are on the other end,” Neville says with a wave. “You can head that way and look around if you like. I was going to get a look around the classroom spaces.”
Snape walks down the path without a word, and Neville watches him go for a moment before he turns into the first greenhouse. It’s humid inside, mostly-empty pots sitting in wait for Neville and the students. He stands for a moment in Professor’s Sprout customary spot—near the door, but slightly to the left—and feels a light breeze hit him square in the back. He remembers the heat in the greenhouse year-round, and he wonders how many years it took before Professor Sprout found just the right spot. He turns to leave and spots a small square of dark blue glass.
Pomona Sprout
Herbology Professor
Greatly Missed, Warmly Remembered
Neville doesn’t know how long he stares at it, but he jumps when Severus clears his throat in the doorway.
“The second greenhouse from the end will serve my purposes,” he says.
Neville nods. “That should be fine. I can help you—” He hiccups and covers his mouth with his hand. “Excuse—” His voice cracks. He stares at the ground and watches his tears fall onto the stone floor. “I found her,” he whispers. “She wasn’t ten feet from here, protecting the plants from them…” Neville looks at the plaque, at the solid, square font used to memorialize the only professor who never seemed fearful he was going to cause mass destruction. “And I was on the other side of the grounds pretending to be a war hero.”
“You are a war hero,” Severus says firmly. “You did not plan to be, and you certainly showed no aptitude for it when you arrived here, but you are now a war hero.”
“I don’t want to be,” Neville can’t swallow the sob that comes up, and he presses his hands against the greenhouse wall to keep from crumpling to his knees. “My mum and dad, they’re war heroes. Harry and Ron and Hermione, everyone in the Order. You—”
“I am nowhere close,” Severus cuts in. “I survived.” He steps forward and touches Neville’s shoulder. “And you can decide to do the same, or you can wallow.”
“I miss…” Neville looks at Severus, and they stare at one another for a long, quiet moment. “I miss.”
“Everyone does,” Severus tells him. “You are not unique there.”
“Thank Merlin,” Neville breathes out. He watches Severus watch him. He looks at Severus’s hand, still on his shoulder, and then he steps forward, tilts his head, and kisses Severus on the mouth. He’s terrified in the moment before Severus kisses him back, so lightly he almost misses it. “Miss,” Neville murmurs, and then Severus is pulling away.
“The second to last greenhouse in the row, Mr. Longbottom,” Severus says, voice firm, and then he’s gone.
Neville stands still and listens to Severus walk away, the click of his shoes on the stone path that leads to the greenhouses slowly fading away. He looks around the greenhouse—his classroom—and removes his robe. He hangs it on a hook by the door and rolls up the sleeves of his button-down shirt. There’s work to be done, he thinks, and no one else to do it. He starts potting Mandrakes.
Part Two