I felt there was somewhat of a dearth of fanfiction concerninging itself with Neville, and Neville with the character I plan to bring into the equation somewhere down the line as the event of his rebellion unfolds. I had planned for it to involve scenes of a sexual kind (mostly timid and tame), though not strictly consensual. However, the more I began to write, the less I appreciated such a noncanon situation with potentially dispiriting consequences, for I have come to like my character of Neville and no longer want to relegate him to a position of initially-innocent-lamb-turned-smut-cohort-with-ambiguously-immoral-and-questionably-gay-antagonist-to-be-left-perplexed-and-mortified-and-questioning-the-world. Yes, slash. But now I wonder, and so I cannot say exactly where I'm going to take this story. Well, I hope you enjoy it none the less.
Neville's Snare
He slid through the inconspicuously ajar door, whisking himself away with more lithe than he would have been capable of but a year ago. He spared no glance into the bright classroom, with its long thick black table tops and matching stools, high and wide windows spanning the entire south side facing the grounds, and slipshod arrangement of objects including but certainly not limited to a single globe and wooden hat rack. Instead he immediately turned on his heel and crouched down to peer out between the heavy old wooden door and its frame into the great hallway.
He leaned forward on an outstretched arm to inspect both ends – still deserted, no sign of Peeves, Filch, or Mrs. Norris. There was no sigh of relief; only acknowledgement of the situation, for the presence of either of those bodies was largely inconsequential to his plans. He would act no matter what the obstacle, no matter what the consequence. Though he would honestly like it if things went smoothly, how often did they? Neville was not a pessimistic person, as far as many things went, but years of dumb failure, clumsy humiliation, and most recently horrible injustice, had embittered his natural optimism.
Still, he had no wish to be seen, so his fingers lightly grasped the edge of the door and slowly pulled it in towards himself, leaving but a few centimeters through which to peer. He had not much scope, but it was space enough to allow the end of a wand.
His dress shirt and slacks stretched and tightened over his crouched and bent limbs, which were becoming slightly pained, though he paid no attention to his physical frustration. His attention was wholly absorbed in the stark, vacant and echo-y silent passage. In the soon to abate quite however he became aware of his still somewhat labored breaths, left over from his race to beat all others out of class, and absent mindedly wiped his forehead on the end of his sleeve; a rushed and half-hazard swipe, it was jerky and anxious. He gripped and rolled his wand tightly in the sweaty hand at his side.
Alright – he was not the brave, courageous, newly buffed and suddenly worthy hero people had wanted, want, had needed, need. Deep down . . . and not even that deep, just all around, he was still Neville. Stuttering, blushing, indignantly stubborn in the face of debauchery, Neville. He didn't understand what people went on about, admiring heroes and the like – you just do what you have to do. And, and if no one else was going to do it, well, well then he would, he would just have to do it himself. No big deal, really, no big deal . . . Yeah. He would do it, he would show them all, those Death Eaters. Yeah! Dumbledore's Army! WE'RE DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY, AND WE'RE NOT GONNA TAKE THIS ANYMORE!
He shifted his weight slightly, placing his elbow on his thigh and resting his chin in his palm, still watching alertly. He had left Herbology ten minutes before the end of class, having guiltily but with resolve fed Mrs. Sprout a line about feeling ill, desiring to head up to the infirmary. While he had been simply glad to be released when she had told him to please leave, by all means if he felt he must, he would wonder later about the arrangement of her features, the strange look she gave, and he would question whether she had truly believed him, or had indeed thought he was not being truthful. The stuttering, blushing Neville would return when he thought about Mrs. Sprout knowing he had lied to her; her most faithful, promising pupil.
As soon as he was out of eye sight of the greenhouses, he had dashed off to the castle and speed walked along the corridors, neck twisting to look this way and that, deliriously panicky he would be seen and questioned as to the why's and how's of his being there when classes were not yet released. He imagined Snape's cruel, maliciously glinting eyes and his thin, disgustingly sneering lips pouring odious hatred down upon him, insults as thick and black as tar spewing from his dead mouth to cover Neville's pale, doe face, to sink into his pores and choke the life out of him.
Fortunately, nothing of the sort came to pass, and crazy with worry and excitement came Neville safely through the door into the classroom. The hair at the base of his neck was still damp with sweat, though most of it was tufted about, framing his cheeks; dark matte locks of brown reaching and curling up under his ears, looking heavy. His skin, though pale, had also a beige translucency to it, as if had the tinniest bit of olive tint, and an exquisite claret flush was always ready to rise to the occasion to finish the look with just a dash of youthful innocence and vigor.
He would never be considered "hot", nor anything near STUD material – too introverted with perceivable sagacity, sedentary, too into Herbology, which as an interest was hardly indicative of coolness, previously too unremarkable and unconfident, and perhaps in light of his recent "hero" label, his quiet nature was even intimidating to the more extroverted and insecure girls who relied upon obvious forms of attention from their more shallow male wooers. Maybe they even thought, perhaps, that he was above them, that he would not appreciate them – although Neville would scarcely depreciate anyone who did even as little as simply be kind to him. It can be said, too, that he did not generally seem interested, was never caught up in the drama and play of teenage sexual energy. But who really knows about these things? Who knows what went on in his mind at night, during class, in the common room among hordes of merrily chatting and animated people, his age, engaging in things of excitement and importance while he was alone, with nothing and no one?
When he was being humiliated by Snape and attempting to pour ingredients into a pungent cauldron with erratic and tremble hands? When he was walking out of St. Mungo's with a slippery bubble gum wrapper being caressed in his pocket?
Well, maybe we can guess, then, what he might have been thinking, but we needn't brandish it.
To the right person, however, the doughy suppleness of his skin, the dull lustre of his hair, the intensity and sincerity of his tenebrous brown gaze (the effect this look had on people less authentic than himself he did not know), that he could get mad and sad and turned on like anybody else, would be appreciated and matched by a soul just as great and worthy. But that would not be now, nor can anyone claim that it would be ever.
A confetti of voices and a bedlam of footfalls and swishing clothing reached him lightly from a ways off, getting louder and more pronounced at an almost alarming rate considering his long wait in complete non-activity. When things happen they come hard and leave fast. From which pole of the hallway people were moving in like swarms of locusts to devour the harvest, as Filch would imagine them (a plague on all our houses!), it was impossible to discern. But of course it was both. He poised himself and held his wand aloft; his breath hitched in a sudden chill but his eye brows were stern with resolute decision. In sudden acute fear he touched the door as if to bring it in that magic miniscule fraction of a millimeter which would stop him from being seen. Though if he actually closed the door any more he would scarce be able to see anything but blobs of shadow, even less be able to cast through such a crack.
He began to feel a prickling and tingling of anxiety at the back of his neck, little needle points in a jitter-bug dance inside his skin. His lips parted, gradually peeling away from one another as breath glided over them in a 'get ready, set, go' kind of release. Faint shadows stretched to a point before his door, the fluctuating silhouettes of lumbering students as they made their ways down the hall. From his point of view they almost looked like encroaching flames, tints of grey bringing ill tidings.
To be continued . . .
