Disclaimer: I don't own HP, never will.
Summary: In desperate need of money when his Gran sends an owl to tell him he will be receiving no more allowance, Neville applies to test some of the Weasley twins' latest products. Little does he know they are starting a new line directed towards a more adult audience, and consider him a prime subject for testing an aphrodisiac. Taken from Challenge #86 from Woobies of Destiny Harry/Neville fuh-q fest.
Chapter One: The Need and the Means
Amidst the din of the morning chatter in the Great Hall, a few owls flew in delivering the daily post. Neville watched as various letters and brown packages were dropped off to students and teachers. Not paying particular attention, he jumped in surprise when a familiar owl landed in front of him. In his jerk he knocked a glass of pumpkin juice into Hermione's lap, who jumped up in surprise.
"Blimey, Hermione, I'm sorry," Neville said, trying to mop up the spill with his napkin, his ears turning scarlet. Hermione sighed, and with a swish of her wand and a murmured spell her robes and the table were dry.
"It's alright, Neville," she answered, sitting back down. "So, is that a letter from your grandmother?" Still fighting down his blush, Neville turned back to the owl which seemed to be giving him a withering glare.
He gave her a wan smile, "Oh, yeah, must be." The owl almost bit him when he accidentally pulled its leg too hard as he untied the piece of parchment. As soon as the owl delivered its message, it was off again. For some reason his gran's mangy owl never liked him, even when he tried to give it treats.
Neville shrugged, and opened the letter from his gran.
Although he should have known what she would write about, as she had written to him of nothing else, he slumped in his seat and tried to shield anyone else's view of its contents. It read:
Neville,
I am severely disappointed in you for your marks, which have not improved one iota since last term. It's a wonder they have not taken you out of that school yet for all the talent you show. You know you would serve much better at home with me, Neville. You were never one much for academia. You know, I am sure, the dire straits I have put up with as of late, with the rising medical bills from St. Mungo's, and the cost of your education which you're obviously wasting. It's no wonder I'm destitute. And now, Gringotts keeps writing letters demanding more money, the vultures. Because of these circumstances, I can no longer send you your allowance of a galleon a month. It was an inexcusable extravagance I indulged you in for too long. They feed you there well enough, I'm sure, and since you have all your atrociously expensive books already, will have no need for anything else. Do write to your poor grandmother, Neville. With you gone to that school I have no one here to be my company, and am utterly alone. Love,
Gran
Without fail, his grandmother always managed to make him feel the size of a gnat yet at the same time guilty for breathing by the time she was through with him. When Neville finished reading the letter, any enjoyment he could have found in the day drained through the holes in his shoes in a puddle on the floor.
He was glad he at least still had Herbology that day, so there was something to look forward to; something he not only liked to do, but excelled in. Also, there really wasn't anything else he could think of he needed to buy at the time, and he still had about ten sickles left. The next Hogsmeade weekend was a month away anyway. What else could he need?
A whole bloody lot, that's what. Neville scrutinized his reflection in the lavatory in between lessons. From his time as a first year at Hogwarts to now in his last, Neville grew in more ways than one from the small, chubby, round-faced boy amazed by the size and grandeur of the castle. Now, despite his personal opinion it was hardly worth remarking upon to anyone, he had grown in height to reach most the other boys in his year. Though Ron still towered over everyone else like a giant, he thought with a smirk. He tried to straighten his robes, but for the past few months or so, they'd been too tight around his shoulders, and his shirt pulled uncomfortably across his back. He tried to stretch it out a bit more, but only succeeded in making his sleeves pull up halfway to his elbow.
He sighed in exasperation and decided to wait until later to try and make any more adjustments. He tucked his shirt back in his trousers. It seemed he was doing that more often, now because his shirt constantly came out on its own. His pants sagged low on his hips, so he went to tighten his belt another notch, but he looked down in confusion to see there were no more holes in the leather to fasten the belt.
"Huh." Neville shrugged and refastened the belt at its previous position, and tried to pull his pants up enough to make them stay. They only fell back to barely keep a purchase on his hips.
Neville never cared much about his appearance; no one else seemed to care, and he was too busy not slicing his throat while shaving and forgetting his homework to consider primping himself in the morning. When it did cross his mind to make sure his hair was neatly combed back and his robes straight, he wondered exactly what the point was, and who exactly he wished to impress. Such lines of thinking usually kept him away from mirrors for the rest of the day.
No matter his indifference towards his appearance, he drew the line when his clothes just plain didn't fit at any angle, or with any amount of belting or pulling. After a pair of trousers showed his legs past the tops of his socks when sitting down, he tried to figure out a sewing charm. The basic idea would be to let out the hem in his trousers and sew it back lower, which would make them longer.
After that disastrous, failed attempt and a trip to the hospital wing to unstitch two of his fingers from his trousers, Neville had only one pair of trousers left intact, which, of course, were also too short. Adding to his dismay, his robes stopped short about mid calf, no matter how much he stooped. Neville was amazed he had been able to wear them since fourth year, but he was no more able to pay for new ones than he was before. He scoffed at that particular idea. New ones! I'd be lucky to get threadbare used ones, if only they'd just fit, he thought.
The more he dwelt on the fact he had no money, the more miserable he became realising how much he needed it.
It was not only clothes he was in need of, which he considered regrettably necessary, but also books. Herbology books, to be specific. Herbology was a way in which Neville could identify himself in a positive way. He was not the imbecilic boy who couldn't brew a boil cure potion without destroying the potions lab, or Ginny Weasley's farcical date to the Yule Ball, or the pathetic excuse for a son of the brave Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom.
Neville was one of the best students in Herbology. He could remember plant names, their magical properties and how to handle them with ease. He found the company of plants, no matter how poisonous or caustic, preferable to the company of other people. It seemed the plants preferred him as well, who flourished under his care. He slowly learned to take pride in his ability in Herbology, and it was an ever-present reminder that he wasn't an accident waiting to happen at everything in his life.
Before term started, he travelled to Flourish and Blott's to buy his school textbooks, but they also had new books on current theories in Herbology; of cross-breeding different plants and the developing new magical abilities that could be used in Potions and Mediwizardry. He asked Hermione about it, and she said Muggles had been doing it for years, something to do with jean therapy, but why trousers needed counselling Neville didn't know.
Neville shuddered just thinking of Potions, but was very interested in the aspect of aiding Mediwizardry. As soon as he could, he searched through the Hogwarts library for anything about cross-breeding, but didn't find any new literature on the subject published within the last fifty years.
He spoke with Professor Sprout, and she commiserated in the sad state of the Herbology section of the library.
"It is a sad thing for that section to be so neglected," she said. "Not many students reach upper level Herbology courses, and those who do generally buy their own books which are more recent." She sighed, and smiled sadly at Neville, who looked as if he lost all hope at her statement. "You are welcome to look through my personal collection," at this Neville's face brightened, "but I have not had much time or the means while teaching here to acquire those more adventurous texts." Ecstatic she offered him such a thing, he thanked her profusely regardless and promised to come later that week to look over her collection.
Unfortunately, her warning proved correct. She did have a great deal more books on the study of magical plants, but none that sparked his interest so keenly as crossbreeding. Neville thanked her nonetheless for her generosity and left with a few of her books, which he tore through so quickly as to make even Hermione proud.
Herbology journals were another source of the groundbreaking research going on, but like the books, were not found in the Hogwarts library, and were much too expensive to subscribe to himself.
It was at times like these when all the things he wished would happen and all the things and people he failed paraded in his head, going in never ending circles reminding him how stupid he was, how he would never succeed even at the one thing in which he was talented, how he could never live up to his mum and dad, how his clothes would never fit right, and how no one would ever notice him.
No one remarked at these times Neville was quieter than usual. At least no one mentioned it to him.
After a while, he would realise pitying himself would get him nowhere, and that he was placed in Gryffindor, not Hufflepuff. Neville refused to think that the Sorting Hat could have been wrong.
So Neville would trudge on, taking the sneering remarks from Snape and the rest of the Slytherins, the indifference of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and the reluctant acceptance of the Gryffindors in stride.
Yet such a thing as simple as money brought his motivation to keep going to its knees. He knew deep down money does not fix problems and that it doesn't make one happier, but it sure would make some things much bloody easier.
When no one else was in the dormitory and he had a modicum of privacy, he would open his bedside drawer and unwrap the eight Sickles he had in a handkerchief. He would count it, hoping against hope he miscounted somewhere and would suddenly find himself five Galleons richer, but of course this would be an instance where he wouldn't make a mistake.
Was it so wrong to want to be normal, or at the very least have the semblance of it? Was it too much to ask?
Neville went down to dinner, which started fifteen minutes ago, disgusted with himself.
He helped himself to dinner, but only pushed the food around on his plate. The conversation of the other students whirred around him, the other students indifferent to his presence. He looked down the table at Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Neville was grateful to them all for making an effort to be nice to him, yet the fact they had to make an effort in the first place disheartened him. They were nice about it, though, he thought. Especially Harry. He knew more about Neville than most, and understood what it was like growing up with no parents. A dark thought whispered unbidden at his conscience, which he hastily fought down. Yet like many things, the harder one tries not to think of something, the more it becomes imbedded in one's mind.
At times when his dormitory mates were asleep and he lay awake in the darkness, he felt raw, pure jealousy towards Harry. Not for his fame, his wealth, his friends. But because his parents were dead, and Neville's were not. That feeling scared him more than he would admit to himself and made him so ashamed. Somewhere in between the visits to his parents who did not know who he was, his grandmother indulging them with sweet nonsensical platitudes, and the nurses who kept saying there was no change in their condition, Neville lost hope.
He lost hope he would ever tell his mum about some of the adventures he went through in school, and she would react with surprise and awareness of his tale, that his dad would slap him on the shoulder and tell him how proud he was of his son. That his mother would look in his eyes and tell him how much she loved him, and would embrace him, knowing Neville to be her son that she loved so.
Neville gradually lost hope any of that would happen over the years. To have them so close, to hold their hands, to speak to them, to see them breathing, yet them not being there was more torturous than Neville believed anything could be. Even the event of their deaths.
Yes, Neville envied Harry for that. That Harry could look at pictures of what his parents were like when they were alive and happy, instead of the unshakeable image of them lying in sterile hospital beds being taken care of like newborns. It seemed to be just so much easier.
A shriek brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked around until he saw a third year Ravenclaw being tickled mercilessly by an older boy. A disapproving glance from McGonagall set them to rights.
Neville took a breath and ran a hand through his hair to dispense the cloud of gloom that settled over him. It was just then he noticed a leaflet sitting under a dish of mashed potatoes, with a bit of gravy dripping onto it.
He picked it up and read:
GALLONS OF GALLEONS! Contact Fred and George Weasley at
Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?
Like to earn a little extra gold?
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,
93 Diagon Alley, London, UK.
for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs.
(we regret that all work is undertaken at applicant's own risk)
At first Neville laughed at Fred and George's antics. He should have known they would keep trying to find beta testers, even if they weren't still at Hogwarts. His laughing died, however, when he realised this could be a way to make a little money, to either buy a new pair of trousers or that Modern Herbology periodical.
Alarmed he was even considering willingly becoming a test subject of the Weasleys, he made himself remember all the times he fell prey to their pranks and jokes, his skin turning bright green, for instance, and especially when he was turned into a canary. He refused to let that incident go.
Then why was he considering this?
The thought of getting money which would pay for so many things overrode any rational thought of going into such an agreement with the Weasley twins.
Even though his better judgment was screaming at him to leave everything well enough alone, he decided to send an owl to them at Diagon Alley in the morning, Merlin help him.
A/N: I edited this chapter just a bit, but did nothing to the overall plot. Hopefully the prose is a bit less awkward.