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Entry tags:	2009_fic, fic4:leni_jess, snape/neville

fic for leni_jess 'Magical Hazard: Handle With Care' (Snape/Neville)

Fic for: leni_jess
Title: Magical Hazard: Handle With Care
Author: centaury_squill


Pairing: Snape/Neville
Rating: PG
Warnings/Content Info: highlight between brackets if you prefer story warnings:
[pre-slash]
Summary: When the Hogwarts governors insist on appointing Neville Longbottom as Herbology professor, Headmaster Severus Snape imagines it won't take much to send him packing.
Disclaimer: The world of HP and its characters belongs to Rowling. The author of this fic has borrowed them for the purposes of storytelling. No profit was or will be made.
Word count: ~9,000
Author Notes: Happy holidays, leni_jess!

Magical Hazard: Handle With Care


Neville Longbottom stood up, wiped his hands on his jeans and eyed the half-planted bed of Thymus wizardiensis with satisfaction. He loved his job in the Chelsea Physic Garden - or Apothecaries' Garden, as its Wizarding section, safely hidden away from Muggle eyes, was still known. The Garden contained plants from all over the world, many invaluable in Potions or Muggle medicine. Some were difficult to establish, even with the aid of enchanted glasshouses. But Neville really enjoyed getting to know each kind of plant, its needs, its individual characteristics. The Thymus wizardiensis, for instance, had really responded to Neville adding Mooncalf manure to the potting compost. He smiled, levitated another tray of seedlings over from the potting shed, and bent to his task.

The Spring sunshine warmed his back as he worked. He gently lifted the seedlings out of the tray and planted them in the freshly-dug earth, with a murmured word of encouragement for each one. Every so often he paused to savour the glorious scents around him: the leaves of the Thymus wizardiensis he was planting, the Dianthus arcania flowers in the next bed, the smell of the earth itself. He really did have the best job in the world.

He was so absorbed that he didn't notice the short dumpy witch strolling along the paths between the plants until she was standing right beside him.

"Hello, Neville."

He blinked up at her for a moment, then grinned as he recognised his old Herbology teacher. "Professor Sprout! It's great to see you again! I'll just finish putting these in -"

Professor Sprout sank to her knees beside him and stretched her hand out towards the seedlings in their tray. "Ah, your Wizard's thyme looks nice and healthy," she said with approval. "I'll help you plant them up, shall I?"

They worked side by side in companionable silence until the last seedling was in. Neville firmed the earth around it with a farewell pat, then jumped up and helped Professor Sprout to her feet.

"Come and have a look at the Serpens ferocissimus, it's doing really well now," Neville said enthusiastically, leading Professor Sprout into the greenhouse reserved for plants needing special care. "Remember how it looked when it first came here? Well -" indicating a tall shrub with a sweep of his arm, "Tada!"

"Oh, well done!" Professor Sprout exclaimed. "Mind if I take a closer look?"

Neville nodded and reached down a pair of dragonhide gloves from a shelf. "Better put these on, it can be pretty vicious."

The shrub erected its spines menacingly as she approached, but soon calmed under Professor Sprout's expert handling.

"You've done wonders," she said. "When I think what a sickly, stringy thing it was when you took it on -" she evaded a sly jab from a thorn and laughed.

"Would you like a cutting for Hogwarts?" Neville asked, beaming with pride.

"Hogwarts - well -" his old teacher looked suddenly serious. "Matter of fact, Neville, that's one of the reasons I came to see you. I've decided to retire. Not getting any younger, you know."

"Oh!" Neville said blankly. He couldn't imagine Hogwarts without Professor Sprout. "Who'll take over from you?"

Professor Sprout stepped away from the Serpens ferocissimus and stripped off the dragonhide gloves, not looking at Neville. "Well - did wonder - if you might like to apply?"

"Me?"

Seeming very interested in the stitching on the dragonhide, Professor Sprout barked, "Always had a high opinion of you, Neville. Think you'd be ideal."

"But - but -" Neville wasn't sure what to say. "I'm very honoured, of course -"

"Don't say no right away," Professor Sprout told him. "Thing is, not just the teaching -" she hesitated, then said, "I'm worried about the headmaster."

"Professor Snape?" Neville couldn't suppress a slight shudder. He might be older and braver now - but if he were to encounter a Boggart, he was sure it would still take the form of Professor Snape.

"Yes, well, none of us did right by him, that dreadful year - of course, we didn't know - anyway, he won't really talk to any of us - he's getting more and more bitter, and locked into himself -"

"And you think I could help?" Neville stared at her. "Professor Sprout, he loathed me when I was at Hogwarts. He's not going to accept my application, even I make one."

"He might not have much choice," said Professor Sprout. "And, Neville," she went on, looking thoughtfully at the Serpens ferocissimus, "I'm sure if anyone can help him, you can."

* * *
"Absolutely not!"

Snape crumpled the parchment into a ball and hurled it across his office. It bounced off the portrait of Armando Dippet, landed on the highly-polished oak floorboards and skidded underneath a cabinet. The former headmaster tutted and frowned at the current incumbent. Snape ignored him.

"Bloody board of governors!" he ranted.

There was a chorused hiss of disapproval from most of the portraits lining the walls of his office, apart from Phineas Nigellus, who smirked in mild approval. Snape scowled.

"Is something wrong, my dear boy?" asked a solicitous voice from behind him.

Snape cast a sour look over his shoulder at Dumbledore's portrait.

"Oh, nothing's wrong," he said sarcastically. "Nothing's wrong. Only Pomona Sprout retiring, and the board of governors deciding that Neville Longbottom, of all people, would make a suitable successor."

He got up from the desk with a swirl of robes and began restlessly pacing to and fro.

"Why did the Ministry give the school governors all these new powers, anyway? Are they afraid I'll fill the staffroom with ex Death Eaters if they leave me to my own devices?"

He Accioed the governors' letter out from under the cabinet and glared at it in fury.

"They may be able to force Longbottom onto my staff, but I'll make sure he doesn't stay long. By the time I've finished with him, he'll be begging the sodding governors to accept his resignation."

Dumbledore looked sceptical, but remained politely silent.

Snape halted his pacing by the window and stared out over the castle grounds. In the distance a lone thestral rose above the treetops in the Forbidden Forest and began to circle. A grimace twisted Snape's thin features as he remembered Neville Longbottom's arrival at Hogwarts.

* * *
Snape had always known it would be a traumatic occasion. How could it not be, the first time he'd come face to face with the boy-who-lived and the boy-who-should-have-died? There they were - Potter and Longbottom - a fresh-faced, cheeky little sod who looked far too much like his father, and a fat, stupid little cry-baby who should have been sorted into Hufflepuff.

He longed to draw his wand and blast them with painful, revengeful curses. Instead, he had to content himself with sarcasm and taking house points. Pitiful. He took refuge in Occlumency: driving his memories and emotions deep within; inaccessible, for the moment, even to himself.

After that the lesson proceeded as first year lessons do - tedious, uneventful, predictable. Until the moment when his dungeon was suddenly filled with clouds of poisonous green smoke. Until Neville Longbottom melted his first cauldron.

Snape drew his wand with an obscure feeling of vindication. "Idiot boy!" he snapped, pointing his wand at the destructive tide of potion inundating his dungeon floor. With a last vindictive hiss, it vanished. He eyed the angry red boils on Longbottom's arms and legs. Normally in a Potions accident he would at least charm away the victim's pain. Not this time.

"I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?" he added coldly, with a surreptitious twitch of his wand.

Neville whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

Resisting the temptation to hex boils onto the boy's bollocks as well, Snape curtly ordered Longbottom's unfortunate lab partner to take him up to the hospital wing. He then got some small relief for his feelings in unjustly blaming Potter for the mishap.

Ever since that day, Snape had associated all of Neville Longbottom's various and widespread disasters with melted cauldrons.

* * *
Neville sweated in the hot August sunshine as he loaded up his wheelbarrow with dragon dung from the heap by the west wall. This was one task he'd be glad to leave behind. Hogwarts might use the stuff, but not the huge quantities he had to manhandle in the Apothecaries' Garden. He couldn't even use his wand: dragon dung was notoriously unpredictable and tended to explode in the presence of magic. Oh well, at least it kept him fit. He added a final dollop to the top of his load, dropped the shovel and set off down the path. Flies fled before him and a garden gnome broke cover and ran away, holding its nose.

Neville wheeled his smoking barrow around the corner of the potting shed, and stopped short on seeing Professor Sprout standing in the middle of the path.

"Hi!" he called.

He tipped the dragon dung out of the wheelbarrow to make a tidy heap beside the shed then went inside and unslung a coiled hose pipe from its hook.

"Be with you in a sec," he said, unrolling the hose and attaching one end to a brass tap just outside the shed door. "I need to make sure this is safe." He pointed the hose pipe at the dung heap. "Could you turn the water on for me, please, Professor?"

Professor Sprout spun the tap. the sinuous curves of the hose jerked and straightened as if alive, and a jet of water shot out and soaked the dungpile, the path, and Neville himself. Unfazed, he made sure that every inch of the dragon dung was thoroughly doused before nodding to Professor Sprout to turn off the tap.

A big toad emerged blinking from under a flat stone by the edge of the path.

"Trevor?" enquired Professor Sprout.

Neville shook his head. "No, Trevor went missing my last year at Hogwarts. Funny, I was always losing him, but he always turned up in the end. Not that last time, though." Neville's normally good-natured face darkened. "I've always suspected maybe Professor Snape used him for Potions ingredients."

He bent down, scooped up the toad and cradled it against his sopping shirt. "This is Terry. My grandmother gave him to me when I started working here." He stroked it gently with the tip of a finger. "He likes it in the Apothecaries' Garden." He put Terry down onto the damp earth and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"I'm so glad you've decided to come back to Hogwarts," Professor Sprout said, looking up at him earnestly. "I'll feel better knowing my plants are in good hands." She grinned. "My pupils, too, of course."

Neville laughed, unselfconsciously shrugging out of his wet shirt and draping it over the handle of a spade stuck into the soil. Pomona Sprout eyed him appreciatively. He'd come a long way from the shy, fat little boy who'd fainted at the sight of a mandrake.

"Hope you can come up a few days before the first of September," she went on. "I'd like to show you what plants I've got in the greenhouses nowadays, hand things over properly."

"No problem," Neville said. "I finish here in a couple of weeks, then it shouldn't take me long to get my stuff together and moved up to Hogwarts. It's not as if there's very much of it."

"Are you bringing your toad with you?" asked Professor Sprout, eyeing Terry as he hopped lazily along the path.

"I don't think so," Neville said. "He likes it too much here, don't you Terry?" He picked the toad up again and held it to his ear. It emitted a deep croak. "See, he says he doesn't want to end up in a cauldron." Neville shuddered, remembering his schooldays, and turned pale underneath his sun tan. "In a cauldron - or poisoned."

"Severus Snape wouldn't -" began Professor Sprout, but Neville interrupted her.

"Don't you believe it, Professor. In my third year at Hogwarts, he nearly poisoned Trevor. If it hadn't been for Hermione..."

* * *
To the small, scared thirteen-year-old, Professor Snape seemed to loom ten feet tall, his eyes flashing fire, his voice alternating between a menacing hiss and a rumble of doom. His sarcastic jibes tore what was left of the boy's self-confidence into tatters. After a Potions lesson with Professor Snape, Neville Longbottom was always reduced to a quivering wreck.

Every time he walked into the dungeon it was the same. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how often he told himself to keep calm and concentrate on the potion he was supposed to be making, within minutes of setting up his cauldron he was struggling in a panic-stricken fog. Nothing ever went right after that. Today, for instance: why wasn't his Shrinking Solution the bright green it should be? What had he done wrong? And, oh Merlin, Professor Snape had noticed - he was standing over Neville's cauldron with that unpleasant sneer on his face - he was thrusting a ladle into the potion and scooping some out as if he'd like it to be Neville's guts - he had that tone of voice as he let the potion splash back and said, "Orange, Longbottom. Orange. Tell me, boy, does anything penetrate that thick skull of yours?"

Neville stared miserably down into the orange liquid and thought, Go away, leave me alone, oh please leave me alone, over and over, so hard that he only caught snatches of Snape's tirade:

"Didn't you hear... only one rat spleen... dash of leech juice... what do I have to...?"

Then, mercifully, Hermione was speaking up, offering to help him put the potion right - but Snape was having none of it - "I don't remember asking you to show off, Miss Granger," - and Hermione was looking as embarrassed as he felt himself, Snape was a real bastard, she was only trying to help - but then the nightmare got even worse, Snape was threatening to feed Neville's potion to his toad at the end of the lesson.

"Perhaps that will encourage you to do it properly," he sneered, moving away in a menacing swirl of black robes.

"Help me!" Neville gasped to Hermione. Snape was sure to carry out his threat; poor Trevor's life was in danger. Neville's hands were trembling so badly that he dropped the Shrivelfig he was supposed to be skinning.

"It'll be all right, Neville," Hermione murmured reassuringly, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Snape was out of earshot. "What you need to do..."

The rest of the lesson passed in a blur for Neville. He followed Hermione's whispered instructions blindly, and his faith in her was justified; minutes before Snape called for them to stop adding ingredients, Neville's potion turned a reassuring bright green. He waited, shivering, beside his simmering cauldron until Snape strode up and loomed over him.

"Everyone gather round," Snape said, holding his hand out for Neville's toad, "and watch what happens. If Longbottom has managed to produce a Shrinking Solution, his toad will shrink to a tadpole." His voice took on a gloating tone. "If, as I don't doubt, he has done it wrong, his toad is likely to be poisoned."

He picked Trevor the toad up and trickled a few drops of Neville's potion down its throat when it was in mid-croak. Neville crossed his fingers and held his breath; then with a small pop Trevor turned into a tadpole. For a moment Snape looked as if he'd like to poison Trevor anyway, then he produced a small bottle of antidote and returned the tadpole to its former shape. Neville let out a sigh of relief.

"Five points from Gryffindor," Snape said sourly. "I told you not to help him, Miss Granger. Class dismissed."

* * *
In complete contrast to Snape's lessons, Neville had always loved every moment spent learning Herbology. The thought that he was about to become a Herbology professor himself seemed almost unbelievable. His friends on the staff of the Apothecaries' Garden teased him about it unmercifully, predicted that he'd be back within a fortnight, and gave him an uproarious send-off at the Leaky Cauldron on the eve of his departure. Neville was still nursing the hangover when the Knight Bus dropped him off at the gates of Hogwarts the next day.

Pomona Sprout was there to welcome him.

"Bound to seem a bit strange at first," she told him, leading him towards the greenhouses. "Being a teacher, not a pupil. But you'll soon get used to it. Come and meet my plants!" She swung open the door of Greenhouse One. "Your plants, now, of course," she added, with a wry smile.

Neville felt at home the moment he stepped into the greenhouse. The very smell of the place reminded him of a thousand Herbology lessons, of the best days of his school life. His headache eased and he happily followed Sprout around Greenhouse One, admiring all the plants.

In Greenhouse Two, Pomona Sprout showed him all the weak or sick plants she'd quarantined and had been trying to nurse back to health. Neville assured her that he'd take good care of them all.

In Greenhouse Three, Neville was reminded of his second year when his former teacher proudly introduced him to a crop of spotty teenage mandrakes, sulking in their pots.

In Greenhouse Four, Severus Snape was waiting for them.

Neville's first, bewildered thought was that Snape had shrunk. Of course, he could never really have been ten feet tall, but surely he'd been taller than Neville, even in that fateful seventh year?

As Neville stared into the dark eyes on a level with his own, he suddenly realised that Professor Sprout had been right: here was a man in terrible pain. Then a shutter seemed to come down over Snape's face, and the impression vanished.

"Ah, our new... professor," Snape said, with a delicate hint of incredulity on the last word. "I thought for a moment, Pomona, that you had been keeping a... gardening... boy hidden away here," his black eyes slid appraisingly over Neville, "for the, er, manual labour."

Pomona Sprout's weather-beaten face took on a deeper colour. "Not sure what you're doing here, Headmaster," she barked. "This greenhouse is supposed to be for the Herbology Professors' personal use only."

Snape bared his yellow teeth in an unlovely smile. "Oh, aren't I allowed to welcome our newest member of staff?" he asked.

Neville gave a feeble smile and held his hand out to shake Snape's.

Snape ignored it.

"I hope you are leaving Mr Longbottom a detailed list of his duties, Pomona," he said, looking down his hooked nose at her. "I always found him incapable of the simplest task unless Hermione Granger was hissing instructions into his ear the whole time."

"Neville never had any problems in my lessons," Pomona Sprout said robustly. "I'm sure he'll make an excellent teacher."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?" Snape said. His cold black gaze rested on Neville for a moment. "I shall be taking a... close... personal... interest in Mr Longbottom's performance."

Then he swept past them in a swirl of black. At the door he paused a moment and looked over his shoulder. "Oh, and Pomona. Don't make any long term plans for your retirement." Then he was gone, banging the door behind him.

* * *
Neville hadn't expected his first term as Herbology professor to be easy, but he hadn't realised quite how difficult Snape would try to make things for him. The lessons when he taught a combined class of Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs weren't too bad, Snape usually left those well alone. The Ravenclaw/Slytherin classes, however, were another matter. Snape took to dropping in on them part way through a lesson. He paced up and down the greenhouse as he'd paced his dungeon back in his days as Potion master from hell and Neville's worst nightmare. But Neville was no longer a scared schoolboy, and soon found that he could continue teaching with only an occasional glance at his uninvited visitor.

At the end of Neville's first fortnight of teaching, unable to either intimidate the young professor or find anything to criticise in his knowledge of Herbology, Snape resorted to denigrating him in front of the class.

"It's a good thing cauldrons aren't required for this subject," he remarked with a sneer. "Professor Longbottom is notorious for melting them. Even giving him detention never cured him of the habit."

As Neville watched Snape pace around the greenhouse spitting venom, he was reminded of a potbound Toxic Tumbleweed he'd once known, which had tried to savage everyone who came near it with its poisonously barbed tendrils. The insight helped him keep calm until Snape eventually left, slamming the greenhouse door behind him with a frustrated bang.

This episode was not without repercussions: some pupils took their headmaster's attitude as carte blanche to create as much havoc as they liked in Neville's lessons. One in particular, an obnoxious fifth year Slytherin called Aloysius Nott, was openly rude, talked loudly over Neville's instructions, and played gobstones with his mates at the back of the greenhouse. Things came to a head when he sabotaged the fanged geraniums he and his classmates were supposed to be re-potting. This was the last straw for Neville, who had nurtured them from seedlings.

"Report to Greenhouse Three at 8.00 pm for detention, Mr Nott," Neville said, sadly eyeing the now fangless geraniums. "You can help me mix up a batch of compost for a fresh sowing."

Nott scowled. "I don't think so, sir," he said. "I've got better things to do tonight."

In the Great Hall that evening Snape paused briefly by Neville's chair on his way to his place in the centre of the staff table.

"I have cancelled Mr Nott's detention," he said curtly. "And in future, clear any punishments you may wish to give with me first."

Neville glanced into the main body of the hall. A group of boys halfway down the Slytherin table were jeering and pointing at him. Aloysius Nott was in the middle of them. When he saw Neville watching, he made a rude gesture and burst out laughing.

Professor McGonagall was also watching the Slytherin table, her eyes bright with anger. After the meal she touched Neville on the shoulder.

"Come up to my office for a moment, would you, Professor Longbottom?"

* * *
"You see, Neville," she said, when they were seated in tartan-covered armchairs in her office in Gryffindor tower, "it's not just an issue between you and Professor Snape. The discipline of the whole school suffers from episodes like this."

Neville nodded. "Yes, I know, but what can I do? Professor Snape is the headmaster."

Professor McGonagall regarded him shrewdly. "You could report his unprofessional behaviour to the school governors. But you know that, don't you?" And when Neville nodded again, she added, "Would you like to tell me why you do not wish to report him?"

Neville frowned and took a deep breath. Then he let it out again and shook his head. "I don't really know, Professor. Well, for one thing, he taught me, and I'm new to the school, and..." He paused. "But the main thing is, I think I feel sorry for him."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "You're a kind-hearted young man, Neville," she said. "Professor Sprout was absolutely right about you. But I can't allow school discipline to suffer, you do see that, don't you? I shall have a word with Severus myself. I am by no means new to the school, and for that matter, I taught him. And although I, too, feel sorry for him, I would have no compunction about reporting him to the governors if necessary. But I don't think it will be." She looked keenly at Neville. "Is there something wrong?"

"Why does he hate me so much?" Neville burst out. "I'm not the silly little boy who used to melt his cauldrons, why can't he see that? I feel differently about him now, I've moved on. Why can't he?"

Professor McGonagall looked sad. "Oh, Neville, I don't know for sure. But if he's ever to find peace of mind, he needs to come to terms with the past. Professor Sprout thought that you might be able to help him - I wasn't so sure, but..." she broke off, deep in thought. Then her face lightened. "Well, we shall see what we shall see. Don't worry, Neville. And as for young Mr Nott -" now she looked positively gleeful, "I shall attend to the matter of his detention myself. I know for a fact that Poppy Pomfrey has a cupboardful of bedpans up in the hospital wing which could do with a good scrubbing."

* * *
"Poppy! Are you there? I've come for my joint medicine."

Professor McGonagall stood at the entrance to the hospital wing, wrapped in a tartan shawl; it was October now and she was already starting to feel the rheumatic twinges which always came when the cold winds of Autumn blew through the draughty castle. Not for the first time she wondered whether she should follow Pomona Sprout's example and retire somewhere warm.

"Minerva, lovely to see you!" Madam Pomfrey came hurrying along the corridor, a large bottle in her hand. "I have your medicine here. But come into my office for a minute, my dear, and have a nice cup of tea."

Professor McGonagall followed Madam Pomfrey into her office and lowered herself carefully into a chair. "I'm not as young as I was, Poppy," she said ruefully.

Poppy Pomfrey set the bottle down on her desk, tutting sympathetically. "You poor dear. Back playing up again? Never mind, take some of this now. Set you right in no time." She poured a generous dose of viscous purple liquid into a glass and handed it to her friend.

"Sometimes I think it's time for me to retire," Minerva McGonagall said. She sipped at the potion and pulled a face. "I've been teaching for the best part of half a century, you know."

Poppy threw up her hands in mock horror. "Mercy, you can't go, you're the only one of us our dear headmaster listens to!" She moved around her office, tapping her kettle with her wand, taking cups and saucers out of a cupboard and putting them on the desk. "Thank you for sorting out young master Nott, by the way. My bedpans have never been cleaner!"

Minerva gave a wry smile. "My pleasure." She drained her medicine glass and put it down. "Well, let's hope all that nonsense is behind us. We can do without the headmaster recruiting Slytherins into his vendettas."

The kettle began to sing loudly and a jet of steam shot out of its spout. Poppy bustled about making tea. "Hmm," she said at last, putting the full teapot down on her desk and opening a tin of biscuits, "Professor Snape has a new ploy now."

"Oh?"

"He told me that he's decided to lighten Professor Slughorn's workload. He's taken it upon himself to brew me all the potions I need for the hospital wing."

"Well, that should keep him occupied, at least," said Minerva, stretching her hand out for a biscuit. "Take his mind off persecuting young Neville - no? You think not?" For Poppy was shaking her head.

"I've never heard of putting Devil's Snare into Pepperup Potion before," she said, pouring out the tea. "But the headmaster assures me it will be an improvement."

"Well, maybe it will," Minerva said doubtfully, taking her cup. "Thank you, my dear." She took a sip. "Ah, nobody brews tea like you, Poppy."

"Nice of you to say so, Minerva." Poppy stirred her own tea thoughtfully. "The Devil's Snare is the least of it," she said eventually. "Professor Snape keeps coming up with 'improvements' to potions I've been using perfectly happily for years. And not only that, he's planning to brew potions for all sorts of unlikely illnesses. I ask you, when did we last have a case of Dragon Pox at Hogwarts? And all his potions require leaves and berries and goodness knows what else from all sorts of exotic plants. Plants that are tricky to grow, need a lot of care. Some of them are downright dangerous."

"And of course Neville Longbottom has to grow them," said Minerva thoughtfully. "I see."

* * *
Neville had just started to open a large packing case covered in warning labels when he heard a knock at the greenhouse door.

"Hang on a minute!" he called, hastily tapping the case with his wand to reseal it before flicking the wand towards the door. Locks clicked open, bolts slid back, and a massive padlock sprang apart, letting its heavy chain rattle free.

"Come in!"

Professor McGonagall walked into Greenhouse Four. "I don't recall all these fortifications in Pomona's day," she remarked.

Neville grinned. "She wasn't growing plants for Professor Snape's special potions."

"That's what I came to talk to you about," said Professor McGonagall. She eyed the packing case. It was plastered with lurid stickers bearing the internationally recognised 'Magical Hazard' symbol. "What in Merlin's name is this, Neville?"

Neville tried to look nonchalant, but only succeeded in looking guilty. "It's just been delivered: Boggart's Boxthorn. Very rare."

"Boggart's Boxthorn!" shrieked Professor McGonagall. "Is Severus Snape out of his mind?"

"I'm taking precautions," Neville said defensively, nodding towards the greenhouse door. "Nobody can get into Greenhouse Four except me. Unless I let them in, of course. And I'll be sure not to let any students come in here, so don't worry, they won't be in any danger."

He looked at Professor McGonagall in concern. "Are you all right? You look quite pale. Here -" he pulled a high stool out from under a bench and dusted it down with his handkerchief, "take a seat."

Professor McGonagall collapsed onto the stool. "Neville," she said, "do you realise quite how - but you must, you're a qualified herbologist - how lethal this - this -" she seemed lost for words. "And how on earth were you able to obtain one, any way?"

"The headmaster authorised the purchase," Neville said, unable to repress a proud smile as he looked down at the packing case.

"When Poppy Pomfrey told me about all these - ahem - improved potions he's been brewing for the hospital wing, I thought it was a ploy to pile more work onto you, maybe even to risk a minor injury to you or your pupils - but this!"

"It might have started like that," said Neville, "but I've grown every plant that he's asked me to, and of course I wouldn't dream of putting the students at risk. Any plant that's at all dangerous I'm growing in here, behind locked doors." He waved his hand around the greenhouse. Some evil looking green fronds waved back at him. A sinister rustling came from a dark corner. "I have everything under control, Minerva, really. And I think that Professor Snape realises that. I think he's actually starting to respect my expertise as a herbologist, and that's why he's trusting me to grow Boggart's Boxthorn for him."

Professor McGonagall looked at Neville as if Snape's wasn't the only sanity in question.

"Thinking the best of people is an admirable philosophy - in principle," she said. "But I'd seriously advise you not to apply it to Severus Snape."

Neville only laughed.

* * *
Severus Snape paced restlessly around his office. Things were not going at all according to plan. So far Neville had coped competently and cheerfully with every challenge Snape had thrown at him. The stupid boy had even thanked him for getting the Boggart's Boxthorn for him to raise. In fact, he was so thrilled with it anyone would have thought Snape had given him an early Christmas present. It was infuriating.

"Why so surprised, Severus?" That was Dumbledore's portrait, of course; the damn thing had taken on far too many of its original's characteristics for Snape's liking.

"What?" he snapped.

"You were thinking about Neville Longbottom again," Dumbledore said, his painted eyes twinkling. "And I wonder why you are so surprised that he has grown into such a stalwart young man. He was already showing signs of it in his last year as a pupil here."

Snape, who preferred not to think about that year, merely grunted.

"I don't just mean his spirited defiance of the Carrows," Dumbledore went on, "I know that made things difficult for you. But killing the snake Nagini, now, I would have thought -"

Snape wheeled round and stared at the portrait. "Longbottom did that?"

"Didn't you know, Severus?"

"I was - elsewhere - at the time, Dumbledore."

"But surely you heard about it, after you recovered?"

To his surprise, Snape found his hands were shaking. He clasped them behind his back, and said jerkily, "I preferred - I still prefer - not to dwell on that time."

"Understandable," Dumbledore said gently. "But I must ask you to hear me out."

Snape gave an unwilling nod.

"Very well. I will make it as brief as I can. After Voldemort thought he had killed Harry Potter, he had his body brought in triumph to the doors of Hogwarts. Neville Longbottom then tried to attack Voldemort; Voldemort disarmed him and, Neville being a pureblood, offered him the chance to join the ranks of the Death Eaters. That offer was, naturally, refused."

"Naturally," muttered Snape, with a grimace.

"Voldemort summoned the Sorting Hat from this office, put it on Neville's head, and made it burst into flames. It was supposed to kill Neville, but it did not. Instead, it gave him the Sword of Gryffindor."

"That's the second mistake that hat made with Longbottom then," Snape snapped.

He stalked over to his desk and sat down.

"Now, Severus, you know you don't really mean that," Dumbledore said.

Snape fiddled uneasily with the paraphernalia on top of his desk; for some reason he didn't want to think about what Dumbledore had just told him.

"The Boggart's Boxthorn berries are due for harvesting at midnight," he said eventually, glaring at his desk almanac. "We'll see how brave your young Gryffindor is then."

* * *
A cold wind gusted around Hogwarts castle; moonlight and moving shadows made eerie patterns in front of Neville as he walked towards Greenhouse Four. He could hear rustling noises in the bushes on either side of the path. An owl called from the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Neville had been this way often, in all weathers and at all times of day and night, but this time, this night, were special. It was approaching midnight on October 31st, Hallowe'en, the one moment at which Boggart's Boxthorn could be persuaded to give up its berries. If, that is, the gatherer was a powerful enough wizard, and trusted by the boxthorn. If not, he could very well end up dead.

Neville had lavished a lot of care and attention on the magical shrub and was certain he'd managed to establish a rapport with it. Whether he was powerful enough he didn't know, but he wouldn't be alone: Severus Snape, who wanted to add the berries to his potion the moment they were picked, would be there too. And he was certainly a powerful wizard. Although, shouldn't he be here by now? It was very nearly midnight.

Even as he was thinking this, Neville saw a dark figure emerge from the Forbidden Forest and stride towards him. As it got closer, he recognised Snape, wearing a hooded cloak and cradling a small cauldron in his arms.

"Hello, Professor Snape," he said, taking out his wand and preparing to open the greenhouse door.

"Longbottom," Snape acknowledged, with a curt nod. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

Neville let them into the greenhouse and secured the door behind them. The air was warm and still, a complete contrast to the chilly wind outside. Snape set his cauldron down on a nearby bench, removed his heavy wool cloak and hung it from a nail. Neville found himself short of breath. He'd never been alone with Snape like this before. The interior of the greenhouse seemed suddenly intimate, cut off from the world outside; a warm, brightly-lit bubble sailing in a dark and stormy ocean.

Snape peered suspiciously around the greenhouse; he could see many different plants, most of them deadly, but there was no sign of the Boggart's Boxthorn. "Where is it?" he demanded.

Neville tried to pull himself together. "Over here," he said, leading the way to the back of the greenhouse. Snape picked up his cauldron and followed. Neville had built a barricade of old packing cases around the boxthorn. The reason for this became clear as they came closer. The shrub seemed to sense their arrival. It erected its branches menacingly, a shiver ran through its spines, and a hail of long, sharply-pointed thorns shot out and thudded into the wooden packing cases.

"It's trying to defend itself," Neville explained unnecessarily. "Be careful, Professor Snape. Its thorns are extremely poisonous." He took out his wand and approached the Boggart's Boxthorn, talking to it in a low, reassuring tone. Very slowly, it lowered its spines to reveal clusters of black, evil-looking berries.

The chimes of midnight sounded faintly outside.

Neville stood by the Boggart's Boxthorn, his wand outstretched. Very quietly, he said to Snape, "Hand me the cauldron, I'll put the berries straight into your potion."

Snape's eyes glittered as malevolently as the boxthorn's berries. "If I wanted a cauldron ruined, Longbottom, you'd be the first person I'd ask. But since I want a usable potion, I think I'd better do this myself."

The boxthorn seemed to take offence at his tone. An ominous ripple ran through its spines. Neville raised his hands and murmured soothing words to it, but Snape pushed him roughly aside and swept his wand in a rapid arc in front of the plant. Its spines immediately froze in place. Snape held out his cauldron and flicked his wand towards the nearest cluster of berries. They detached themselves from the boxthorn and floated towards the cauldron. There was a succession of little splashes as they fell into the potion within.

Smirking triumphantly, Snape turned to go. A shudder ran through the Boggart's Boxthorn. Neville shouted a warning, but he was too late; the outraged plant fired an enormous thorn after Snape and hit him in the arse. For a moment he stood still. Then his eyes rolled up and he crashed down like a felled tree, the cauldron falling from his hands and rolling away under a bench.

The potion began to seep slowly across the greenhouse floor.

* * *
Something hot and wet slides down his face. He's on his knees, screaming, begging. "The Longbottoms, my lord! Kill them! Not Lily, oh please, not Lily!"

Everything is wrong. His body is burning, waves of panic sweep through him, leaving him shaking. He should never have reported that accursed prophecy to Voldemort. The Dark Lord is going to make the wrong choice, he knows it.

And he does.

A fractured moment, and he's back on his knees: the decision not yet made, Lord Voldemort still weighing the threat - Potters or Longbottoms - Longbottoms or Potters -

And again he's pleading, again he knows he'll fail.

An animal howl breaks from Snape's throat. He can't bear it. Why is he being tortured like this? Hasn't he done enough yet, to atone? Why is he reliving the worst moment of his life, again, and again?

He must be in hell.

He's screaming again, and Voldemort is laughing his high, cold, derisive laugh. But then the laughter gets fainter, and he can hear another voice, urgent, worried, comforting. Comforting?

Severus Snape's eyes snapped open. Staring down at him was Neville Longbottom.

"What? Where?" Snape's voice came out as a croak. His throat was raw and painful; apparently not all his screaming had been in his head.

"You're in the hospital wing. The Boggart's Boxthorn shot you with a thorn, do you remember?"

Snape tried to think, but the effort was too much. Waves of delirium began to sweep over him again. He was sinking back into the old nightmare. Dimly he felt a hand grasping his, and clutched at it desperately, as if it could keep him safe.

The next time Snape became aware of himself and his surroundings, the hand had gone. So had his fever. He felt weak and lethargic, content to lie listening to the low murmur of voices a little way from his bed. A female voice, and a male one; he recognised them both. Poppy Pomfrey and Neville Longbottom.

"You should go and get some sleep, Neville. He's out of danger now."

"I'd rather stay."

"You need to rest. You were sitting up all night by his bed. We don't want you getting ill, too."

So it had been Neville Longbottom's hand, then. Well, well.

"Poppy -"

"Yes, Neville?"

"Professor Snape sort of woke up in the night, glared at me, and told me I should have died."

He didn't remember that. It didn't seem to have driven the young man away, though. Strange.

"I mean - I know he was delirious and everything - but he loathed me when I was his pupil, and now - well, the Boggart's Boxthorn -"

"I think this goes back a lot further than that, Neville. But I'm not really the best person to ask."

"Who, then?"

There was a pause. Then Poppy's voice came again.

"If anyone knew Severus Snape, it was Professor Dumbledore."

Well, that was true enough, manipulative bastard that he was.

Footsteps approached his bed. Poppy's voice was louder now; she evidently thought he was still asleep.

"Maybe you should talk to Dumbledore's portrait," she said.

"Ye-es," Neville's tone was doubtful, "but I can't just waltz into the headmaster's office without permission. Anyway, I don't know the password to get past the gargoyle."

"Bezoar," Snape rasped, without bothering to open his eyes. "The password is bezoar."

* * *
Snape woke from a troubled sleep. He couldn't remember his dreams with any clarity, which was probably a good thing. He did, however, remember a gentle touch on his forehead as he was waking up. Poppy Pomfrey, checking for fever?

"Professor? How are you feeling?" It was Neville Longbottom's voice.

Snape opened his eyes. Screens were drawn around his bed; Neville sat in a chair beside him. A cluster of floating candles bathed the enclosed space in a warm glow of light. Everywhere was quiet.

"What time is it?" Snape asked. His throat still felt sore, but at least he could now talk normally.

"Just after midnight. You've been here for two days," replied Neville. Then he repeated his question. "How are you feeling?"

"I've felt worse," said Snape. He winced. "Mainly after suffering the Cruciatus Curse." He looked thoughtfully at Neville. "So you're back, then."

"Yes. I've been talking to Professor Dumbledore's portrait," Neville said. He lifted his hand as if wanting to touch Snape, then let it fall. "You did give me the password to your office, don't you remember?"

Yes, he remembered. The boy had wanted to know why Snape wished the Longbottom family dead, and he'd left it to Dumbledore to tell the whole, sorry tale. He'd expected - hoped? - that Neville would be repulsed by it, yet here he was, back at Snape's bedside. He was surprised to find himself pleased by that.

"So now you know why I wanted your parents dead." The words came out harsher than he intended.

Neville nodded. "Instead of the Potters. I understand. Harry said something similar, once."

"Potter did?" Snape's eyebrows rose.

Neville shrugged. "He just wondered how things would have turned out. If Voldemort had picked on my family, instead of his. But it's no good thinking about what-ifs, is it? What-if Harry's parents hadn't died. What-if mine hadn't been tortured till they went mad. What-if you hadn't become a Death Eater. What-if Voldemort hadn't been born. It's pointless. Things are as they are. We just have to get on with it."

"Dumbledore's been philosophising to you, hasn't he?" Snape said bitterly.

"No, he hasn't. He just told me facts." This time Neville did stretch out his hand to take Snape's.

Merlin, what could the old man have been telling him? The boy's eyes were positively glowing.

To weak to try and think this out, Snape closed his eyes. His last, rather guilty, thought before falling asleep was how pleasant it felt to have someone holding his hand.

* * *
It took Snape a long time to recover fully from the effects of the Boggart's Boxthorn poison; his legs were semi-paralysed and he was very weak. He refused to be taken to St Mungo's, so once he was off the critical list Madam Pomfrey had him moved to a private room close to her office, where she could keep an eye on him. Minerva McGonagall, now acting headmistress, sometimes called in to see how he was, and to discuss school matters as soon as he was strong enough. But his most frequent visitor, and, to his surprise, the one whose visits he most enjoyed, was Neville Longbottom. They were even on first name terms now.

"Why does young Neville keep coming to see me?" he asked Minerva fretfully, secretly afraid that the visits might stop. "Does he feel guilty because he couldn't control his blasted Boggart's Boxthorn?"

"If anyone should feel guilty about that benighted shrub, Severus, it's you," Minerva said sternly. "As I told you at the time." She looked at Snape's thin, pale face, deeply marked with fresh lines of pain, and her expression softened. "But do you really not know why Neville visits you?"

Snape shook his head.

"He enjoys your company," Minerva said. "In fact -" She broke off, pressing her lips together.

"In fact - what?" Snape asked, intrigued.

"I'd better not say. It's none of my business, really." Uncharacteristically flustered, Minerva McGonagall got up from the bedside chair and prepared to leave. At the door she looked back. "Oh Severus, can't you see what's under your nose?" she exclaimed. "That poor young man has feelings for you!"

"Nonsense!" snapped Snape. "Utter nonsense!"

But he remained staring at the doorway for a long time after she had gone.

The next time Neville came to see him, Snape examined his face for signs of infatuation, but Neville looked the same as ever: good-natured, smiling, honest blue eyes looking straight into Snape's.

"Minerva visited me earlier," Snape said, then stopped. He could hardly repeat her last remark to Neville. "She, er, she seemed to think I was at fault for requiring you to raise Boggart's Boxthorn in the first place," he continued rather stiffly, "and, I must admit, I did have mixed motives in acquiring it. As Minerva pointed out at the time, I had no business introducing such a dangerous plant into Hogwarts."

"Yes, I know," Neville said ruefully. "She made me get rid of it after your accident. I didn't kill it," he went on, as if Snape might have been worried by the boxthorn's fate, "I gave it to my old boss at the Apothecaries' Garden. They've got proper facilities for looking after it there. Well, they would have. They're world class."

"You enjoyed working there, didn't you?" Snape asked. "I must admit, it's somewhere I've never visited."

"Oh, you should," Neville said enthusiastically. "It's really excellent. Why, their magical plants from South America alone..."

Snape leaned back against his pillows and watched Neville's face light up as he sang the praises of the Apothecaries' Garden.

* * *
It was spring before Snape was finally fit enough to take up his duties as headmaster once more. He stood by the window in his office, staring down into the castle grounds. It had been a long, icy winter, and patches of snow still lay in shaded corners. He was glad to be up and about again, of course, but he missed the last few months. That time in the hospital wing seemed to be from another life, which had no connection to his past or his present. Above all, of course, he missed Neville, even if he did see him at meals in the Great Hall every day.

Neville had tried to continue their - friendship? - but Snape had erected defences worthy of a Boggart's Boxthorn against him; would continue to do so, although he didn't really know why...

...on his knees before the Dark Lord, pleading... on a dark hilltop, facing Dumbledore, pleading... on his knees before the Dark Lord, screaming...

... might as well admit it, he knew precisely why.

A gentle cough came from the portrait above his desk.

Snape spun round and stared across the room at Dumbledore's likeness. The old man looked sad. "You must let go of the past, my dear boy," he said.

Snape gave a bitter laugh. Didn't he have enough to deal with, without meddling, prescient portraits?

"I don't like to see you so unhappy, Severus. Especially as you have a chance of happiness - and not just you -"

Snape went a dull red. That cat Minerva had obviously been gossiping during her occupation of his desk.

Dumbledore continued, "What I have to say, Severus, is for your ears only."

Snape immediately cast Muffliato to thwart the entirely-too-nosey portraits lining his office walls. He felt uneasy and rather defensive: what was Dumbledore about to say? But the old man's words were completely unexpected.

"My boy, have you ever read The Tales of Beedle the Bard?"

Snape gaped at him. Could portraits go senile? Here he'd been thinking - well, he didn't know what - and all Dumbledore wanted to talk about was a children's book?

Dumbledore chuckled at the look on his face. "Bear with me, Severus," he said. "I refer in particular to The Tale of the Three Brothers."

"Well - yes, I suppose so. An allegory about the impossibility of cheating death, if I remember correctly." Snape frowned, trying to recall his mother reading to him when his father was safely out of the way. "There were three objects -"

"Yes, yes," interrupted Dumbledore. "The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Invisibility Cloak. What would you say, Severus, if I were to tell you that all three exist, and that I - or rather, my living self -" he looked rather rueful, "handled all three?"

Snape's eyes narrowed. He was about to say something cutting, but then he paused. That cloak of Potter's; he'd always thought there was something - odd - about it. And the Dark Lord had certainly been obsessed with Dumbledore's old wand, as he knew to his cost. But a stone that could bring back the dead? Surely not.

He said as much.

"You are right, of course," Dumbledore said. "It does not bring back the dead. But it would, I think, allow you to lay old memories to rest."

Snape tensed. To see even a ghostly Lily again - to tell her of his lifelong remorse - to ask her forgiveness -

"Perhaps it would not be such a good idea," Dumbledore said slowly. He was studying Snape's face with a frown.

But Snape wasn't listening. "Where is it?" he demanded eagerly. "What does it look like?"

"Why, you have seen it yourself, Severus," said Dumbledore, "the stone in the cursed ring I was so foolish as to put on my finger. The ring which destroyed my hand and would have killed me there and then if not for your prompt action." He looked uncertain. "If you find it, promise me you won't keep it. You must leave it hidden."

"Yes, yes," Snape said impatiently. "Where is it?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Somewhere in the Forbidden Forest," he said reluctantly. "I don't know where, exactly, but I would imagine close to the grove where Voldemort rallied his followers."

He would have said more, but Snape had already gone.

* * *
Snape walked rapidly along the familiar pathways of the Forbidden Forest. Signs of spring were everywhere, but he paid them no attention as he threaded his way through the thickets and between the trunks of towering trees. At last he came out into a clearing still marked, after all these years, with the blackened remains of balefire. Here he stopped, drew his wand and hesitated, unsure what spell to cast. The clearing was very quiet.

Snape felt a great, nameless longing well up inside him. It seemed to take over his body, surging out through his arm to his wand. He waited expectantly, but nothing happened. The clearing remained blighted, empty and absolutely silent.

Then he heard a faint noise in the trees behind him. He turned and made his way towards the sound. In front of him was a tall beech tree. Its branches were unmoving and its bark seemed unblemished, but there was no doubt: this was where the noise came from. Snape stood perfectly still and waited. Was the Resurrection Stone about to be revealed to him?

With a loud crack the smooth trunk split apart and a toad hopped out onto a branch. It looked somehow familiar. Almost forgetting to breathe, Snape held out his hand. The toad hopped onto it, looked up at him, and gave a welcoming croak.

The years rolled back, and Snape was standing over a terrified youngster, this very toad in his hand, threatening to poison it.

Trevor, Neville's toad.

The toad moved slightly, feeling pleasantly cool against his palm. Severus was suddenly even further back in the past, a boy again, holding a squirming frog against a little girl's neck. He heard Lily's voice: scolding, but laughing too. "You're not to put that down my dress!"

He blinked, and Lily was running away from him across the sunlit park of their childhood. She looked back, smiled and waved. He lifted his hand slowly in farewell as she disappeared into the distance. Severus watched her go without regret, a great burden lifting from his heart. He felt as though the arid accretions of decades had miraculously dissolved, allowing the fragile hope planted in him over the past months to suddenly burst into flower, like one of Neville's plants.

And with that thought he was back in the present, the trees around him swaying slightly in the springtime breeze. Happiness welled up inside him; finally, after all these years, the power of choice was restored. Resurrection Stone forgotten, he turned to walk back to the castle, holding Trevor carefully in his hand.

In the branches above him, a blackbird began to sing.

Fin






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