Becoming Neville

With the ritual at last completed, all of them were exhausted. Snape tended to Remus, while Harry and Neville swept up the bloodstone powder, mixed it with the ashes, and buried it in the backyard.

After that, each of them went their own way. Neville retreated to his room, lying on his bed. His head still ached, but more than that, he felt disheartened. It made him sick to know he had been used to play on Harry and Remus's emotions like that, pretending to be Sirius. Nothing could have been more cruel. And even though he hadn't been a willing participant, still he hated having been the agent of suffering for his two friends.

And there were his own inner demons the spirits had taunted him with: Snape insulting him, the spirits hitting him with his own memories of Cruciatus. He'd had no idea such evil spirits were lurking in that laboratory. No one had predicted it.

He lay on the bed in his darkened room, listening to the faint scuffling of Trevor on the prowl for beetles; Harry in the room next to his, no doubt distraught over his false glimpse of Sirius; Remus overhead, mortified by his lapse into lycanthropy; Snape - well, somewhere, thinking who knew what.

But above all he thought of his parents. Fourteen years at St. Mungo's. Fourteen years of not being in control of their own minds, at the mercy of their own demons. He'd been able to throw the spirits out and regain control of his mind, but his parents could not break free. Is that what it was like for them? Did alien forces control their words and deeds, while somewhere deep inside they raged helplessly, unable to gain control? Did they know they were mad? Could they hear the mediwizards talk about them, and yet be unable to respond? Could they see the people who visited them, and yet be unable to communicate? He could not bear the thought of them trapped in their own bodies, locked in a living prison for which there was no escape.

At last thoughts of his parents drove him out of bed. His headache flared again as he sat up, but he wanted to read the medical files. There had to be some clue, some hint that his parents still existed, and he only needed the right key to set them free.

Trevor croaked from underneath the desk, and Neville knelt on the dusty carpet to peer into the darkness. He could just see a faint gleam of light reflecting off the toad's large eyes. Holding out his hand, he urged, "Come on, Trevor. Let's go to the library. Lots of bookworms for you to eat."

Trevor licked his eyeballs, as if considering the change of diet, then waddled out into Neville's waiting hand.

Cupping the toad to his chest, Neville headed downstairs, not even bothering to check at Harry's door. Harry would emerge when he was good and ready, and not a moment sooner.

The house seemed strange and still. The spirits might be gone, but the unease they had generated lingered, lending an oppressive air to the silence in the halls. Neville passed quickly down the hallway, avoiding the portraits, who seemed even more irritated than normal. With a sigh of relief, he pushed open the door of the library, only to stop short when he saw Professor Snape seated in Neville's own favorite armchair.

Snape looked up at his entry, an open book in his lap, although he didn't look as if he'd been reading it. Neville's head pounded as his breath caught in his throat, and he had to remind himself that he wasn't breaking any school rules by entering the library at Grimmauld Place.

The lines of Snape's face were deeper than usual, and his voice was weary as he said, "Longbottom. How is your headache?"

Trevor wriggled in Neville's hand, and he forced himself to loosen his grip. "M-much better, sir. I-I'm sorry to disturb you. I only wanted to get -." He paused, not sure what to say.

Snape waved a hand. "Well then, get it, Longbottom. Don't just stand around gawping like a grindylow." He returned his gaze to his book.

After a moment's pause, Neville approached the desk next to Snape. "Sorry, Trevor," he whispered, clutching the toad as he struggled to get away.

Not looking up, Snape said, "Talking to your familiar?"

"I - it's only - he likes the library. The bookworms, you see."

Snape raised an eyebrow. "How practical. You may leave him here, if you wish. I've noticed that many of the books are damaged. The beast might as well make itself useful."

Neville hesitated, reluctant to leave Trevor alone with Snape. The potions master had threatened too often to test various concoctions on him. But Trevor would be cranky if Neville denied him his treats. Slowly he knelt and released the toad, who happily hopped toward the shelves.

Keeping a wary eye on Snape, Neville went to the table and sorted through the files. He had been studying the ingredients of the potions Dr. Driftwood had prescribed for his parents. It all sounded alarming, such quantities and combinations of powerful herbs and infusions. But he didn't know if that was normal for medical potions or not. He'd even consulted his class notes, but the notes made little sense, for all that he usually copied them from Hermione. Nor did it help that the parchments were often burned or half eaten away by some caustic potion that had managed to leak all over the desk.

Anxiously chewing his lip, Neville glanced over at Snape. The professor's head was bowed over his book, hair flanking the sides of his face like greasy curtains. Then again, Neville thought, who needed notes when you could ask a real live teacher? On the very few occasions when he had ever dared ask a question in class, he had only incurred Snape's wrath at his ignorance. It wasn't fair. He got in trouble for knowing too little, and Hermione got in trouble for knowing too much. He couldn't imagine that Snape would be any less pleased with his questions outside of class. But this wasn't about marks; this was about his parents. He should be willing to risk Snape's displeasure if there was even the slightest chance he could help his mum and dad.

As Neville agonized over what to do, Snape said without looking up, "Do stop staring at me, Longbottom. If you have something to say, then say it."

Neville winced. "Y-yes, sir." He forced himself to calm down. What was the worst Snape could do? He'd just had evil spirits possessing his brain and torturing him with the memory of Cruciatus. Yet he had been able to exorcise the spirits. He could exorcise his own fear, too. "It's about my parents' medical treatment," he began.

Snape looked up, puzzled. Heartened by this lack of overt hostility, Neville continued, "It's only that they're on so many potions at the same time. And one potion has henbane, and another has bloodwort, and I remembered you saying in class that the two combined could damage the memory." He faltered. "Or something like that. Maybe I remembered it wrong."

Snape closed his book, marking his place with one bony finger. "No, that is correct."

The admission surprised Neville, and he almost forgot what he'd been saying. "Well - so - I mean, that doesn't sound very good, then, does it?"

Snape stroked his chin, contemplating. "It would depend on what the potions are for, and how strong the presence of both ingredients. Sometimes the benefits outweigh the risks when the potions are used carefully for a short period of time."

"Oh. Well, my parents have only been on them for two years."

"Two years?" Snape repeated, frowning. "You must be mistaken, Longbottom. No mediwizard would prescribe a combination of henbane and bloodwort for such a long period of time."

Neville glanced at the files, wondering if he'd made a mistake. He skimmed through his notes. "They started receiving the potions in 1994, and the records show twice a week ever since."

Snape stood, abandoning his book, and leaned over Neville's shoulder, leafing through his notes. "That can't be right. You must have read the files wrong."

"I-I don't think so." He opened one of the files and pointed to the potions log. "I asked Dr. Driftwood about it, and he said -."

"Driftwood? Otis Driftwood?"

He didn't sound happy, and Neville cringed. "Y-yes, sir."

The professor's eyes glittered. "Driftwood oversees your parents' care?"

"Yes, sir. Do you know him?"

Snape stared down at the files, running a long finger down the potions log. "I do not know him, but I am familiar with his work. He espouses a radical form of treatment for severe spell damage, but I think he relies too heavily on long-term use of powerful potions to -." He cut himself off.

"What?" Neville asked, so eager to hear Snape's opinion that he forgot to be scared. "What is it?"

Snape glanced sharply at him. "Why are you studying your parents' medical records? This is far beyond your level of comprehension."

Taken aback, Neville stammered, "I-I know that. But they're my parents. I have to take care of them. I want to understand what's wrong with them and what their treatment is. I know it's all very complicated. But when I ask Dr. Driftwood, he never quite answers my questions. And so much of what he does seems to go against what you taught us in class."

"Astounded as I am to hear that you may have actually retained some of what I have labored so many years to teach you, Longbottom, nevertheless I am no mediwizard. I am not qualified to comment on your parents' treatment."

Disappointed, Neville said, "Yes, sir. Sorry."

Snape looked down again at the files. "However...I *do* have reservations about Driftwood's theories. It might not be amiss to seek a second opinion."

Neville looked up eagerly. "Please, Professor, could you recommend someone? I wouldn't have the faintest idea who to ask."

Snape considered. "There is one person, a former student of mine, Dr. Meena Chatterjee. She is highly regarded as an expert in the medical use of potions."

"Oh, thank you, sir! Can you tell me how I can reach her?"

"Let me contact her myself. She is very busy. But perhaps...would you permit me to review these records?"

"Of course, Professor. They're all here. And these are the notes Harry and I have been taking."

Snape took the offered scroll, glancing over it quickly. He scowled. "For pity's sake, Longbottom, how many times must I tell you, there is no 's' in 'tincture.' T-U-R-E, not S-U-R-E."

"Sorry, Professor."

"Now, leave me in peace while you go check on Potter. No doubt he's moping around upstairs. That boy elevates teen angst to Shakespearian proportions."

"Yes, sir, I'll check on him." Neville all but skipped to the door, ecstatic at the promise of someone who could help him with his parents. At the door, he turned back to Snape once more. "Professor - thank you. You don't know how much this means to me."

Snape looked at him, again with that non-hostile expression that seemed so strange on his features. "You can thank me by learning to spell 'tincture' correctly."

"Yes, Professor!" Neville sang out. Then he left the library and went to find Harry.

****

"It's me," Neville announced as he knocked on Harry's door.

There was a pause, then he heard a muffled, "Come in."

He pushed the door open and peeked his head through. There were no lights on, and with the windows covered, the room was gloomy, even though it was still broad daylight outside. A dark shape moved on the bed, and he could just discern Harry sitting up, his hair even more mussed than usual.

Neville crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to Harry, not sure what to say.

Harry didn't look at him. "I wish we could go outside and play Quidditch."

Neville didn't see how he would really help much, since he couldn't play Quidditch if his life depended on it. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

Harry got up off the bed and meandered over to Hedwig, sitting on her perch with her head tucked into her wing. He scratched her head. "I guess that wasn't really Sirius," he said at last.

"No. Sorry." Even though it wasn't really his fault, he couldn't help but feel guilty about it.

Harry said nothing further, and Neville stared down at his lap. He noticed a frayed spot on the left knee of his trousers. Too much kneeling in the greenhouse. He poked his finger at the spot, worrying at it until he had a little hole going. Gran would yell at him for ruining his clothes, but he didn't care. The trousers were getting too short anyway.

Harry sighed, and Neville looked up. Harry was flipping through the stack of Quidditch magazines on his desk. "What's Remus doing?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him."

"Maybe we should go find him. He could take us into the city."

"He didn't seem to be in very good shape after this morning," Neville pointed out.

Harry shrugged, still looking at the magazine.

"Oh, hey!" said Neville. "Guess what? I was talking to Professor Snape, and he said--."

Harry looked up, scowling. "You were talking to Snape?"

"Yes. He was in the library, and I--."

"Why would you want to talk to *him*?"

"Well, I was asking about the potions that Dr. Driftwood--."

Anger flashed in Harry's eyes. "You can't tell him about that! He's a Death Eater!"

A shiver ran up his back at those fearsome words. "No, he's not. He's a professor."

But Harry did not waver. "That doesn't stop him from being a Death Eater. Supposedly he's a spy for our side, but I don't believe it."

Neville knew Harry hated Snape, but this didn't make sense. "If he were a Death Eater, Professor Dumbledore wouldn't let him teach at Hogwarts."

"Dumbledore's made mistakes before, hasn't he?" Harry argued. "Remember Quirrell? He had Voldemort living in his head our whole first year, and Dumbledore didn't even know! And he's wrong about Snape, too."

Neville hunched his shoulders. He didn't like to think that Professor Dumbledore could make such a serious error, but Harry did have a point. "But he helped us with the spell this morning."

Harry turned on him, fists clenched at his sides. "He tried to kill you!"

"No he didn't. He helped me get the spirits out."

Harry stalked toward the bed. "Don't trust Snape, Neville. He's a liar, and he hates all Gryffindors. He killed Sirius!"

"What?" Neville asked, confused. "I thought - I thought *She* killed him."

"Yeah, well, they're mates, aren't they? They're both Death Eaters!"

Neville recoiled. While he certainly had no love for Snape, it was very hard to believe the man was in league with You Know Who. And he'd been almost nice down in the library. It just didn't seem possible. Then again, Harry *was* the Dark Arts expert.

Neville stared miserably down at the hole in his trousers. If Snape was evil, then that meant he hadn't helped Neville's parents at all, and he was right back where he started.

On his own.