Chapter Text
“The odd thing is, Harry,” he said softly, “that it may not have meant you at all. Sybill’s prophecy could have applied to two wizard boys, both born at the end of July that year, both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix, both sets of parents having narrowly escaped Voldemort three times. One, of course, was you. The other was Neville Longbottom.”
- Albus Dumbledore to Harry Potter (June 19, 1996).
∼ ❀ ✿ ❀ ∽
The tense, shuffling silence of the Great Hall tightened with collectively held breath as Neville Longbottom, to no one’s surprise, stumbled over his long school robes and crashed into the stone floor at the Headmaster’s feet. He didn't see the way the other students winced at the muffled crunch of his nose breaking on the hard ground. He didn't see the way the Slytherins shared a triumphant smirk, stifling their laughter behind their hands. He didn't see the way Draco Malfoy stared at the table, eyes far away and his pointed chin in one trembling hand.
The only thing Neville saw was the furious glare of Severus Snape as he looked down his large, hooked nose at the boy, his lip curling into a scowl.
“Episkey,” he hissed, and the pain in Neville’s face receded at once. The spell did nothing for the blood trailing over his lips and chin and down his neck.
Neville wiped the stinging tears from his cheeks and did his best to stand, tangling further in the wretched fabric several times before he managed it. Snape’s mouth twitched in the corner and Neville flushed a deep red. He turned towards the Gryffindor table.
“Not so fast.”
Neville froze at the sound of the malignant voice of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Amycus Carrow.
“Such displays of… inelegance… are shameful to a wizard of pure blood and high birth,” said his twin, Alecto Carrow, who would be teaching Muggle Studies.
“You must learn to conduct yourself with grace,” Amycus said, grinning with all of his yellowed teeth.
“You will be made an example of.” Alecto waved her wand to spin Neville around, arms locked to his sides at the front of the Hall.
“As the newly appointed Directors of Disciplinary Matters at Hogwarts-”
“-we order you to stand in place until the first bell-”
“-so that others may learn as well, that the way we present ourselves to the world is-”
“-not only determined by our birth, but a skill, and one greatly prized by our-”
They both paused, glancing at each other, then back to Neville.
“-by the elite of Wizen society.”
Alecto turned to the rest of the students, whose attention was wholly transfixed on the exchange. “Such punishments,” she said, “are a gift you would all do well to receive.”
Neville felt the redness in his cheeks trickle down his neck as the tightness in his chest began constricting his lungs. He drew a shallow breath but didn’t bother to protest. It was always him, wasn’t it? At least, when it came to embarrassment or failure.
He drew another breath, steadying his nerves while the clinking of goblets and the scraping of utensils on plates echoed around him. There was no conversation (another disciplinary measure enacted by the Carrows), so Neville had no distraction from the ruminations already circling in his mind.
It had started almost as soon as he’d come to Hogwarts at eleven years old with his initial introduction to the Boy Who Lived as the Boy Who’d Lost His Toad. His memories of first year included melting a cauldron in Potions (in front of Harry Potter), breaking his wrist while flying (in front of Harry Potter), and trying at the wrong moment to be brave, landing him in a full body-bind by Hermione Granger (in front of Harry Potter). And then there was the stinksap incident…. Neville shuddered.
The bell rang overhead and Neville jumped. The sudden movement of hundreds of bodies standing and shifting to grab their bags and books made Neville slightly nauseated and he closed his eyes. When most of the crowd had dispersed through the double doors, he followed, not looking back towards the professors’ table. He didn’t want to see the Carrows’ cruel smiles or Minerva McGonagall’s concern or Pamona Sprout’s righteous anger or Snape’s usual disdain. Instead, he hurried down the hallway after the other seventh year students.
Gripping his course schedule in hand, Neville allowed himself a brief moment to grieve the easy schedule he’d been looking forward to in the face of the school’s new rules. Not only were Defense and Muggle Studies made mandatory, all core subjects were mandatory for all seven years regardless of OWL scores. Neville’s planned NEWT year had included only Herbology, Defense, and Charms, since he’d decided to drop Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. Now, because of Snape’s unjustifiable decisions about their curriculum, Neville would have to face Potions again, and Transfiguration, and four of his six classes were with the Slytherins!
As Neville took his seat towards the center of the Transfiguration classroom, unpacking his things and avoiding the eye contact of everyone in the room, he was grateful, at least, that McGonagall was unlikely to say anything about breakfast in front of the rest of the class. He was mostly correct. She gave him a look that he couldn’t fully fathom, but then jumped directly into a lecture about keeping up with course work, particularly for those students who hadn’t been present for sixth year.
“I will not re-teach sixth year course work to seventh year students as it would be unfair to those who were in my class last year. You will need to do your best to learn what you missed on your own time and work extra hard to catch up.” McGonagall’s penetrating stare landed back on Neville for several moments before she added, “I will grade with your level of experience in mind, as I am required to submit your scores to the Headmaster, but it will not accurately reflect your competency for NEWT testing. Is that understood?”
Neville nodded along with the rest of the students, the ball of tension in his gut loosening slightly. He resolved to do his best to meet McGonagall’s expectations. He remembered being disappointed after his OWL scores that he wasn’t able to carry on with the class, especially after McGonagall had told him his only real issue was confidence. This was a second chance and he’d take it as one, no matter how many late nights it cost.
As McGonagall continued her speech about what topics would be covered each term, Dean elbowed Neville and passed him several pieces of limp toast beneath the desk. McGonagall’s sharp focus landed on the bread, then moved on with a slight nod. Neville, whose stomach was growling loudly, took that as permission. He pulled bitesized pieces from his lap to his mouth, trying to chew without moving his jaw.
When the class broke apart to refresh their skills according to the list of spells on the board, Neville took his place next to Hannah Abbot, a Hufflepuff he paired with a lot because she was just as shy as he was. They proceeded to quietly make fools of themselves in front of each other for over an hour, though without judgment on either side.
In Defense, Neville chose a seat at the back and listened with gritted teeth as Amycus explained the course work they’d be practicing and the skills they’d be learning. It sounded less like Defense, and more like just Dark Arts, though, with the current Headmaster, that was hardly a surprise.
The Slytherins, he was certain, would be excited by the news but, when Neville glanced over, Malfoy’s gaze was unfocused. He was staring through the window with his arms wrapped around himself and Neville thought he looked thin, but he didn’t really care.
Muggle Studies was, as it turned out, even worse because they were forced to listen as Alecto explained that Muggles were a sub-human species.
“They are intended for labor! Wixen should be using them to promote their own welfare. Muggles are weak, feeble minded, dirty, untrustworthy beings who would be better eradicated from society! They should only be spared where they are contributing to the care and comfort of Magical Beings and only until their usefulness is spent.”
Malfoy seemed to have recovered and was laughing under his breath with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, throwing glances at Neville every time Alecto mentioned the superiority of purebloods. Neville would have bet ten galleons that they were planning on how to corner him after class. He was right, of course. He barely made it ten steps when Malfoy’s voice rang out behind him.
“What an absolute disgrace,” Malfoy said, approaching him slowly with his smirk in place. Neville winced as Crabbe and Goyle grabbed his arms and pushed him back against the wall. The emptying corridor was a relief. At least no one was there to watch this time.
“Decided to come back for another year, have you? Blood traitor. You’re dripping with Mudblood filth!”
Neville said nothing. He usually didn’t. He just stared, waiting for it to be over. They’d been playing this game for so long, he wasn’t even afraid anymore. By the looks of it, Malfoy could tell, because he sneered and stepped in closer.
“You’re a Squib with no brains,” he snarled, yanking Neville’s tie loose and pulling his neatly-tucked shirt up from his trousers, “and you’re violating the dress code. Crabbe!” he barked. “Give Longbottom his punishment for failing to tuck in his shirt.”
Neville closed his eyes as Malfoy took a step back. The punch struck him on the cheekbone, just below the eye. Neville flew back into the wall, then slid down to the ground and rested his head on the floor. He could hear Malfoy laughing as he walked down the hall. Neville stared up at the candelabra chandeliers casting their flickering light through the shadows.
He decided to skip dinner, making his way to Greenhouse Three where no one else could follow. Professor Sprout had given him access to help with caretaking the plants, knowing he’d always had a special interest in Herbology. Neville was using it to monitor the NEWT level hybrid project he’d started the year before, a combination of Dittany and Bitterroot.
Dittany was widely used for healing minor injuries and had been hybridized with almost every magical plant Neville could think of at some point in Wizen history. Bitterroot was also used in healing but more so in balms. It was also a primary ingredient in a potion that could enhance the power of spells for the drinker.
Neville was hoping to tap into that potential with the second step in his plan. In particular, he was hoping to create another hybrid with the results of his Dittany/Bitterroot, combining it with Aconite, also known as Monkshood, also known as Wolfsbane. If Neville’s theories were correct (and they likely weren’t), he may be able to create a fast-acting healing balm that worked to rapidly treat werewolf bites and scratches.
Since the final product would likely require the creation of a potion, Neville wasn’t counting on the project actually going anywhere. But maybe, if he took it as far as he could, he could give the plant to someone else to help future victims of werewolf attacks. He’d gotten the idea for the second generation hybrid after Bill Weasley had been mauled by the werewolf, Fenrir Greyback, at the end of the previous year. The same night that Dumbledore-
“Mr. Longbottom,” Professor Sprout said, walking in from the room at the back that held dark-blooming flowers. She set down her bucket of fertilizer and brushed her hands off on her robes. “Shouldn’t you be at dinner?”
Neville continued searching through his perfectly healthy plant for a leaf he could prune. “Wasn’t hungry.”
“Episkey,” Sprout said, waving her wand at his face. Neville could feel her eyes on him, but Professor Sprout had never been the type to meddle. He waited. She sighed quietly and nodded. “Very well. Don’t stay out past curfew.”
Once she left, Neville pulled his journal out of his bag and resumed his sketch of his new plant. He was certain that someone, somewhere, had tried to combine the two before but Professor Sprout had told them specifically not to research hybrid plants before they tried it. She wanted them to have the full experience of trial and error for the NEWT projects and to document every step.
Neville smiled to himself wondering about the distress he would have seen on Hermione’s face at the idea of NOT researching something. The thought hurt. She wasn’t there. In fact, none of the Trio were. Not on the train, or at the feast, or in the Gryffindor dorm the night before. Neville had stared across the room long after Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan had gone to sleep, at the bed where Harry should have been. It was empty, perfectly made, and somehow emptier because of it.
Neville missed them, but he was mad at them too. All three of them. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, for leaving. For not telling him where they were going. For never trusting him enough to include him in things, no matter how hard he tried to prove himself to them. After the Department of Mysteries, he’d been sure things would change, but….
Neville drew another leaf on his sketch, careful to copy the woodgrain-like pattern as precisely as possible and wondering if the plant would bloom and what color the flowers would be. It had taken him the entire previous year to even combine the plants in a way that would sprout and he’d been one of the few who’d succeeded in a live plant at all. Now, as he labeled the growth cycle and listed out the magical properties he was hoping would present, he wrote a list of what parts of the plant he would need to harvest and at what stages he would need to collect for testing.
He’d tucked away his project plant, finished the nightly watering of the greenhouse, and turned off the spigot when he saw a bright, pale-blonde head pass by the frosted glass. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared, grateful to be out of sight and out of reach, but there were no larger bodies in tow behind the tall, lithe frame of Malfoy, grunting and cracking their knuckles the way they always did. It was strange.
Curious, Neville closed Greenhouse Three, cast a hasty disillusionment charm on himself, and made his way past the vegetable patches towards the edge of the lake. With the sunlight already faded to purple on the horizon and a new moon hiding in the cloudy sky, Neville nearly missed the black-robed figure creeping along the cliffs between the castle and the water until he was almost completely hidden from view.
Neville watched, unmoving, as Malfoy sat and wrapped his arms around his knees. Unable to look away, Neville saw the way his shoulders shook as though he were trying to catch his breath, before he squeezed himself tightly into a ball and let his head fall onto his folded arms.
For a long time, neither of them did anything at all. Then Neville turned around and walked back to Gryffindor tower.
No one greeted him when he entered the common room. The Carrows had already expanded the silence rule from the Great Hall to all public places, including the common rooms (Sunday night through Friday after dinner to “prevent distractions” and “promote learning”). The Great Hall had become a chasm of chewing mouths, the corridors a whispering hiss, and the common room an eerie vigil of downcast eyes under the scrutiny of Sonorus Vigilins, which would send a notification to the Carrows should the volume exceed the allotted threshold.
The Carrows, it seemed, preferred children to be seen and not heard. Or, more likely, Voldemort wanted to keep them from talking so they couldn’t organize. His grandmother had lectured him enough about resistance in times of war to recognize the tactic.
Neville nonverbally Silencio’d his footsteps and passed through like a ghost, trying not to trip and holding his breath.
When he made it to his dorm, Seamus and Dean were both in Dean’s bed with the curtains drawn. Neville was happy for them. At least they had someone. Each other. At least they weren’t alone.
Neville dropped his bag onto his desk and shucked off his robes. He had an essay assigned already, but he’d get to it on the weekend. Instead, he showered, scrubbing the dirt from his hands and meticulously scraping it from beneath his nails, his mind on Malfoy and the way he’d been shaking….
Neville turned off the water, chastising himself for caring at all. He didn’t care, really, he was just curious. He had no reason to care about Malfoy and his emotions.
Dripping a trail of water into his room, Neville cast a drying spell, summoned his pajamas, and, once he’d dressed, he crawled into bed, exhausted. Leaning back against his headboard, he cringed at the pain in his skull and thought, again, that he had no reason to care about Malfoy, even if he was crying. Neville impatiently waved a nonverbal Episkey at his bruised head and closed the curtains to his bed. Too lazy to reach for his wand again, Neville cast a wandless warming charm to fight off the chill and wiggled down further into the blankets.
He refused to think about Malfoy or his stupid shaking shoulders or his far-away eyes. Neville wasn’t stupid. He may be a clumsy, cowardly, worthless Squib, but he knew better than to feel sorry for a Slytherin.