Hello friends! I am back with a brand new fic! This is my first foray into writing for the Harry Potter fandom. (which is strange, considering that I have been a Potterhead for 21 years!) I think the main reason I was so hesitant to write for this fandom is that I was afraid to play with JK's toys.

Lady Ylla changed my mind. She literally forced me to write this by giving me one of her very own plot bunnies! I am forever grateful for her and all of her Nevinsy fics for making me fall in love with this pairing! Thank you so much, friend!

Lady Ylla was so kind to beta this fic for me, and any and all mistakes that appear are my own, and in no way a reflection of her fantastic skillz.


Mending

Chapter one

"Come on, Professor Longbottom!" Teddy Lupin said in an exasperated tone.

For the third time.

Neville sighed. It's not that he didn't like Quidditch, he loved it. He just didn't like flying. Ever since he broke his wrist when he was a first year, he had been wary of brooms. He preferred to keep both feet planted firmly in the soil that helped grow his beloved plants.

"Please, Neville?" James Potter pleaded. Out of the corner of his eye, Neville saw James clasping his hands under his chin as if in prayer.

Turning around and brushing off his hands on his robes, Neville fixed young Mr. Potter with a stern glare.

"While we are within school grounds, you will address me as 'Professor Longbottom', got that, Potter?"

James rolled his eyes and muttered "yeah. Sure. Whatever."

"Don't make me owl your mother," Neville threatened, trying to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching. James was so like his father is many, many ways. But the boy had his mother's attitude.

"Sorry, Professor Longbottom," James said in a clearer voice.

"Thank you," Neville said, turning back to the bench that held packets of seeds, watering cans, ceramic planting pots of all sizes, gloves, earmuffs (the second years would be starting Mandrakes soon), and a tangled assortment of trowels, hand rakes and pruning shears.

"Why exactly do you need me to practice Quidditch with you again?" Neville called over his shoulder as he tried to untangle a hand rake from a pruning shear.

"Cause our captain, who is also our Keeper, is in the hospital wing with a nasty cold. He has to take pepper-up potion every half hour. Besides," Neville could almost hear the grin in Teddy's voice. "Aunt Ginny said you were excellent at quidditch,"

Neville dropped the tangled rake and shears, narrowly missing piercing his foot with the point of the shears.

"She said WHAT?" He screeched.

Of course Ginny would think it would be a hilarious joke to tell her godson that Neville was an expert flyer. She wasn't there in first year when the old school broom bucked him off and he dropped to the ground shattering his wrist. Just because he had laughed in the face of the Carrows, lead an underground resistance, and sliced the head off of Voldemort's snake with the sword of Gryffindor didn't mean Neville was fearless.

"I will definitely be owling Ginny Potter tonight," he muttered under his breath, watching Teddy, James, Hugo, and the rest of the Gryffindor quidditch team howl with laughter.

"Fine, FINE." He practically shouted over the noise. "I'll keep for you morons, but only for an hour or so. I am a teacher, and I do have actually work that needs to get done."

The team cheered and clapped, thrusting and extra broom in their favorite professor's hand and, half dragging Neville, made their way across the vegetable patch to the quidditch pitch.


Two hours later, and Neville was still, miraculously, in the air.

It seemed that Teddy actually felt a little bad about teasing Neville in front of the whole team, and did his best to make sure none of the chasers got close to scoring, so all Neville really had to do was hover in front of the goal posts and hope that he didn't slide off either end of the ancient Shooting Star that one of the chasers had dug out of the school broom shed.

But, Neville later reflected, as with most things in his life, things just couldn't go smoothly. One of the chasers (a third year girl, but Neville couldn't remember her name for the life of him) burst through the defensive formation and shot like a bullet straight towards the goalposts. Neville jerked the broom to the left to stop her, but the Shooting Star being ancient as it was, didn't respond quickly enough. The old broom gave a violent shudder, bucked wildly, and dropped like a boulder through the air.

Neville watched with wide eyes as the ground rushed at him a lot faster than he thought was possible. He gripped the handle of the broom, and gave a mighty wrench upwards, hoping to at least slow his mad descent back to earth. The broom didn't slow, and with a sickening crunch, Neville and the broom hit the ground.

Neville must've blacked out, because one second the ground was rushing up towards him at an alarming speed, and the next second he was staring up into the scared faces of the Gryffindor quidditch team. He turned his head slightly, and noticed great wooden splinters and bits of twig surrounded him. The old school broom must have shattered on impact. Neville took a deep breath and tried to set up.

A mighty wave of pain washed over him, making him realize that the broom wasn't the only thing to shatter on impact with the hard packed earth of the pitch. Fighting down a rush of nausea, Neville slowly reached out a hand and twitched his dirt stained robes aside.

The surrounding quidditch team collectively sucked in a breath, and he nearly passed out from what he uncovered.

The bones of his lower leg were sticking out through his trousers. His knee was sitting at a strange angle to the rest of his leg, and blood pooled around the injury, soaking into the grass and staining his robes.

Neville wanted to faint. He wanted to throw up (Hugo was already doing that, one hand clutching his broom for support, one hand clutching his stomach). Looking up into the terrified, green tinged faces of the teenagers surrounding him, Neville pulled on every bit of training his seventh year at Hogwarts had taught him.

Taking a deep breath, he turned his face towards Teddy Lupin, the oldest student there. "Teddy, please send someone to the headmistress' office,"

Teddy nodded, white faced, and yelled over his shoulder. "James! Get McGonagall! Tell her it's urgent!"

Neville watched through the forest of legs as James, who was standing next to a still heaving Hugo, nodded to Teddy, swung a leg over his broom, and flew at lightning speed towards the castle.

Neville held his breath and pulled himself into a sitting position, doing his best to block out the excruciating pain radiating from his left leg.

"Professor, you should just lie still!" The third year chaser said tearfully, flapping her hands towards him.

"I'm all right, Beatrice," he said what he hoped was a strong voice.

At least he had finally remembered her name.

Teddy squatted down next to Neville, carefully bunching his robes in his fist to keep them from getting in the blood that still seeped from the wound.

"What else do you need me to do, Professor?" He asked, eyes wide with fear but jaw stubbornly set.

"I need my wand," Neville said, mopping his sweaty face with the sleeve of his robes.

Teddy rummaged one had around in the twigs and splinters that had once been a racing broom and handed Neville his (thankfully) still intact wand. Neville pointed it at his own leg and muttered a quick spell the staunch the bleeding. It was all he felt safe doing at the moment, having neither the practice nor experience in any kind of major healing spells.

His pain addled brain started to swim in memories he would have much rather stay forgotten; memories of Luna shakily muttering episky as she pointed her wand at his broken fingers, his bloodied nose, his cracked jaw. Memories of Ginny producing white bandages from the end of her wand, wrapping them tightly around the wound over his right eye, the eight inch gash across his chest, the cut on his calf that oozed blood down his leg and into his shoe.

Pain had been a constant companion when he was seventeen. Hell, it had been his best friend for months while he stood up to the Carrows.

He fought through the pain then, and he would fight through it now.

Shaking his head to dislodge the memories from the forefront of his brain, Neville tried his best to calm the frightened students around him.

"It's fine, guys." He said, airily waving a hand and swallowing the bile that rose in his throat at the same time. "I've had worse,"

Beatrice and Magda were hugging each other, crying. Teddy was still squatting next to Neville, one hand on his shoulder. Hugo had stopped vomiting, but was still sitting next to the puddle of sick with an ashy face. The rest of the team was still pale faced and worried.

"Teddy! I got her!" Neville heard a shout. The team parted and he saw James running at full speed towards him, McGonagall hot in his heels. At 112, Minerva McGonagall could still keep up with her students that were a fraction of her age.

McGonagall skidded to a halt at Neville's feet. Her face, for once, wasn't set in hard angles and lines, but softened, her mouth slightly open, with two spots of color high on her cheeks from the run to the pitch. As her eyes swept from the splintered broom to his splintered leg, those high spots of color faded. She looked into his eyes, and he could see the ghost of seventh year dance through her mind too.

"Right," she snapped, drawing herself up and pulling out her wand. "All of you, go to the locker rooms, change back into your regular clothes and then go back to your common room. You too, Mr. Lupin. Mr. Potter, help Mr. Weasley along."

The students scrambled across the pitch, eager to get away from the blood and exposed bones.

McGonagall knelt next to Neville and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"This is going to hurt, Longbottom," she said, pointing her wand at his leg just below the knee. With a soft crunch, the exposed bone snapped back into place. Neville grunted in pain, and his vision swam for a moment. With another wave of her wand, McGonagall produced bandages and secured them tightly around his leg, from middle thigh to middle calf.

"Up you get, Longbottom," she said, gripping him tightly under one armpit and helping him stand. "This won't be easy, and it will be painful."

Neville gasped in pain, but did his best not to lean too heavily on the headmistress. Slowly, they made their way to the front of the castle. Neville had to take a break at the front steps, sinking down on to the cool stone. He wiped his sweaty face with the sleeve of his robes again and accepted the small glass of water McGonagall produced from her wand.

McGonagall sat down on the step next to him. "Are you sure you can make it up these steps, Neville?"

Neville looked at her. She very rarely used his first name, and when she did, he was either in trouble, or she was worried.

"I'm fine, Professor," he said, handing her back the empty glass, which she vanished with a quick wave of her wand. "But I don't think I will be able to make it all the way to the hospital wing," he admitted.

"I didn't plan on making you walk up even a single flight of stairs, Longbottom," she said briskly, half annoyed that he would even think that. "I am taking you to the closest teacher's office, where we will call on St. Mungo's. Once a healer has been notified, you will floo there to be treated. Miss Abbott is a fine matron, but I know of your history with her, and, well, I think it's best if you be sent to hospital."

Neville felt his face redden with embarrassment instead of pain. He had thought Hannah and himself had been discreet with their...affair. Neville refused to call it a relationship. He really didn't think that screaming rows, followed by weeks of the silent treatment, then vigorous and vocal make up sex hardly qualified as a relationship. He also thought that the muffilito spell they cast on the door during their fights and the subsequent make up activities would work far better than it apparently did.

"I understand, Longbottom," McGonagall said quietly, staring out across the darkening grounds. "Everyone was trying to find some piece of comfort after the war. It was the same way the first time around,"

Neville looked at her sharply. He was expecting a reprimand, not...understanding.

"I think I'm ready to go up the steps, Professor," he finally said, more to break the awkward silence than actually being ready to tackle the stone steps.

"Right," McGonagall said, standing and brushing off her robes. She grasped his upper arm and helped heave him to his feet, surprising him with her strength again.

They slowly made their way up the stone steps and across the hall, turning down the cool stone corridor and stopping in front of the first floor divination classroom. McGonagall rapped sharply upon the Wood with her knuckles.

"Enter," came the slightly ethereal voice of the only centaur teacher Hogwarts had ever seen.

"Professor McGonagall, what can I help you with?" Firenze asked quietly, coming into view from behind one of the many trees that helped transform the former classroom into what appeared to be a small clearing in the middle of a forest.

"Professor Longbottom will need to use your fireplace to travel to St Mungo's," McGonagall informed him, helping Neville around a small pile of boulders and a tree stump.

"I see," replied Firenze, fixing his doleful eyes upon Neville.

"'Lo, Firenze," Neville said tiredly.

"Hello, Neville Longbottom," the centaur replied.

The centaur had warmed up towards the handful of students with whom he had fought beside during the Battle of Hogwarts. Since Neville had came back to teach after his short stint as an Auror, he had often found himself just sitting in a corner of Firenze's classroom between lessons, enjoying the quiet solitude without having to venture out into the actual forest.

"Follow the path, professors," Firenze said, sweeping his arm towards the small path between two large trees. "I keep the fire lit, but I am afraid I do not own any floo powder," the centaur gave them what Neville supposed was a wry grin.

"That's not a problem," McGonagall said, helping Neville across the clearing. "I have some with me,"

"Your jokes are getting better, Firenze," Neville chuckled as they passed the centaur. Firenze grinned, and inclined his head slightly.

The fireplace was set into the side of a large boulder, and, as the centaur had promised, it was ablaze and the flames were dancing merrily. McGonagall reached inside her robes and produced a small leather pouch. Untying the drawstring, she took a pinch of the glimmering powder and tossed it into the flames, shouting "St Mungo's!"

Instantly, the flames turned a bright emerald green, and with a faint pop! The head of a bored looking witch with sandy hair was sitting in the center of the flames.

"Thank you for calling upon St Mungo's hospital for magical maladies and injuries, how can I help you?" The sandy haired witch said in an emotionless voice, popping her gum at the end of the sentence.

"I am looking for Healer Granger-Weasley," McGonagall said in a brisk voice.

The sandy haired welcome witch didn't even glance around. "One moment please," and with another small pop, she was gone.

A moment later, Hermione Granger-Weasley was stepping out of the fireplace, brushing soot off of her green healer's robes.

"Professor McGonagall, as soon as I realized the call was from Hogwarts I decided to just come on through! What's wrong? What's happened?" Hermione asked, glancing around. She froze, blinking, taking in her surroundings.

"Um...where are we?" She asked.

"First floor divination classroom. The one Firenze teaches," Neville said, leaning heavily against a tree, his breathing becoming labored, the pain in his knee becoming harder to ignore.

"Right," Hermione said, her voice almost sour. Despite the pain, Neville chuckled at her still obvious distaste of the subject.

"Neville!" Hermione yelped, once she finally tore her eyes away from the starry sky overhead and looked around. "What happened?!"

"Your sister-in-law thought it would be hilarious to tell her godson, her actual son, and her nephew that I was an excellent flyer. They badgered me to keep for them during quidditch practice until I agreed. Let's just say, we really need to replace all the old school brooms with brand new ones," he looked at McGonagall, "I would be happy to cover the costs," he told her in all seriousness.

"I will personally see to it," McGonagall informed him, as Hermione bent down and moved his robes aside to examine his knee better.

"We had better get you to St Mungo's, this looks bad," Hermione said, standing and pulling Neville's arm around her own shoulder.

"Thank you, Professor," Neville said, as he limped past. "I am sorry to say you are going to have to find a substitute for a couple weeks,"

"Months," Hermione corrected him.

"Don't worry about it, Longbottom. It will be taken care of." McGonagall said. "Just focus on getting better,"

Hermione took a pinch of the glittering floo powder from the bag McGonagall offered her, threw it in the flames, and helped Neville over the grate to stand next to her. "St Mungo's!" She shouted, and the last thing Neville saw before he spun away was McGonagall stuffing the small pouch back into her robes, her face pinched in worry.


Be on the lookout for chapter two!

I can be found on tumblr as kendrasowlpost