1. Neville Longbottom

Neville's palms were constantly a warm, sticky mess of sweat. He had bouts of trembling all day until after fifth period - even in Herbology, his favorite class, Sprout told him he would work so much better with his plants if he wasn't so jumpy.

Yesterday had been terrible. Neville had slunk into Potions like he did every week for five days straight, his palms dripping and neck hot.

"Mr. Longbottom."

The drawl startled Neville so bad he leapt three feet in the air. It wouldn't have been this bad minutes ago, but the anticipation of this daily shock had built up.

It had been getting periodically worse; he'd thought first year would be the worst of it, and then in second year Snape had been intent on Harry, but this year Snape had only grew more vicious each passing day.

"What is this, Longbottom?" With a white, nearly translucent hand, Snape reached over his shoulder - an action that nearly made Neville fall out of his seat - and plucked a rough, hairy root from the table.

Neville swallowed. His throat felt like the dry chalk still writing instructions on the board. He saw Hermione pause sympathetically at the ingredients cabinet (he knew he should have gotten the ingredients instead of sit and let her make two rounds, but the last time he'd done that a vial had been dropped), and Harry glaring in undisguised empathy two tables to the left. Next to him, Ron was clearly whispering at him to not get involved. Neville silently agreed - Harry would only make it worse, no matter how well-intentioned the Boy-Who-Lived was.

"Well?"

"M...m..." Neville, throat constricted. He swallowed again, feeling as if he hadn't drank water for decades, and tried to focus his eyesight on the root. He knew what it was...if only he could speak…

What a Gryffindor you are, Neville thought bitterly.

"How riveting," Snape sneered, his mouth twisting. "Longbottom knows his letters. Perhaps in a year or so you'll be able to string them into a word or two - "

"Mandrake root," blurted Neville, and he could barely hear himself through his own heartbeat thrumming frantically in his chest. "It's Mandrake root." He regretted it in an instant, because in two seconds flat Snape had spun himself around and slammed both hands down on the desk, intent on berating him for the interruption.

Neville flinched wildly, unable to look at the black beetle eyes that had been bearing down on him since first year, and his knees collided with the underside of the desk.

The cauldron bounced off its legs, landing back on the table with an unsteady smack. With the base already pooling out onto the table, it teetered against the edge. Neville lunged, missed, hands slapping the other end of the table uselessly as the cauldron slammed against the floor beneath him. The rest of the base, which for the first time in a week wasn't water and was, instead, a thick sloshy substance Neville was never able to remember, spilled out.

And then, if things couldn't possibly get worse, the mandrake root as well as the small vial of powdered fairy wings rolled over the edge of the table. The smash of glass against the floor was not pretty.

The deadly silence that followed was overwhelming. Malfoy sniggered to the right, but the rest of the Slytherins watched with bated breath. Neville forced himself to look up at Snape, who was so furious his entire body shook, and immediately dropped to his knees, scrambling to pick up the cauldron.

He nearly threw up at the smell - the excess fairy dust had turned the potion into a sludgy, chunky substance not unlike spoilt milk (both in smell and texture). Small specks had splattered onto Snape's black shoes.

The professor was still silent. Neville hated a silent Snape - it was the calm before the storm, the moment Snape took to gather his verbal assault before firing.

Hermione, who had rushed back the moment the cauldron had tipped, dropped to her knees next to him. Neville felt a rush of gratitude, and he swept the broken crystals of glass into his palm.

"Stand up, Granger!" roared Snape, and Hermione hesitated only a few seconds before rising reluctantly. "This is Longbottom's mess to clean up."

Neville bit his lip, hard. Snape's sudden yell had startled him, and he forced himself to pluck the shards of glass from his right hand. Blood drops had already begun forming in little pricks, but he didn't dare stop. He swept the rest of the glass into his hand and poured them into a pile on the table.

Still, Snape was silent.

Neville grasped the side of the cauldron with one shaky breath, fingers near convulsion, and hesitated before reaching with his bloody right hand.

A separate hand stopped him, lifting the other side of the cauldron. It was Harry - he regarded Snape with a defiant, green eyed gaze that Snape reciprocated with a hearty glare. Neville felt his knees quake and he quickly ducked under the table to retrieve the mandrake roots.

"Back to your seat, Mister Potter." Snape said softly.

Harry ignored his furious teacher, and to Neville's amazement he reached under the table to pluck a missed shard of glass from the ground. Delicately, he allowed it to drop onto the pile of glass, and it landed with a soft plink. Then, in a show of agonizing slowness, he went back to his table. Ron's face threatened to split into a grin.

Snape's face was deadly. "Detention for the rest of this month, Potter. Seeing as you enjoy helping Mr. Longbottom, you can spend it scrubbing all the cauldrons. Sixty points from Gryffindor."

A hiss emerged from the Gryffindor section of the room, but Neville dared not make a sound.

Snape turned to Longbottom. His voice was frosty. "Get out."

Stumbling over his robes, Neville blindly scooped up his bag and ran.

O-O

"Neville? Is that you?"

Neville lifted his head from the book. Ginny's hair was tied back in a mess of red, and it was clear she'd been outside.

"Ginny," he greeted, unable to keep the dejected note from his voice.

The redhead frowned and took a seat in the corner of the library with him. "Snape again?"

Neville groaned, tipped his head back against the shelves. "He kicked me out of the classroom, Ginny."

Ginny swore, and Neville blanched - his Gran would wash his mouth out if she ever heard him say that.

"I'm so sorry, Neville," Ginny sighed. "Snape's always picking on you."

"It's okay," said Neville quietly.

"It is not," Ginny said fiercely. "Snape's a git."

She leaned against the shelves with him, and looked down at his book. "Mandrake roots?" She peered closer. "Diluted Quintaped slime base? Is this the potion from today?"

Neville flushed. "I can't fall behind more than I already do."

"But Snape's always bullying you," Ginny protested, reaching up to fix her messy ponytail. "Neville, honestly. Just cut his class for a day or two. Let yourself calm down."

"I hate this," said Neville miserably. "I hate Snape, and that he can get to me."

Ginny was quiet. She leaned her head on his shoulder in silent comfort. Neville relished it; he sunk into her comfort and shut his eyes.

Snape's eyes flashed in his mind. His palms began to sweat again. Snape slamming his hands down on his desk. Snape slapping out an insult as easily as Neville botched a potion.

He sighed. "I'm going back tomorrow, Ginny."

Ginny nodded from her position on his shoulder. "I know."

"And I'm not going to mess up," Neville concluded uncertainly.

"Even if he is your boggart," Ginny teased. Neville indulged her with a smile, but his insides writhed with embarrassment.

She seemed to sense his discomfort, because she sat back up. "Hey," Ginny said softly. Neville met her eyes.

"You're really brave, you know that?" Ginny nudged his shoulder.

"Hardly."

"No," Ginny said fiercely. "Neville, you face your biggest fear every day! You rarely consider giving up, you always show up to class. You're a Gryffindor if I've ever seen one."

Neville's ears felt hot. "I wouldn't say that. Look at me. I'm pathetic- "

But before he was able to finish, Ginny had punched him in the stomach. Neville toppled off his knees, gasping for breath. He placed both hands on the mahogany carpet, digging his nails into the soft material as he tried to regain his breath. "Ginny!"

She stared at him unapologetically as he resurfaced, breathing hard.

"If you ever," threatened Ginny, "say that about yourself again, I will wring your neck and hang you by your intestines."

Despite the gruesome threat, Neville felt the sides of his mouth rise in a reluctant smile. "You're so violent."

Ginny beamed, and Neville wondered why he'd even thought that comment would offend a girl like her who had grown up with six older brothers (and, most important, Weasleys).

"Just making sure you understand," she shrugged, eyes fiercely protective. Neville had never seen Ginny anything less than fiery and explosive, and the thought made him smile again.

His stomach (besides the dull throb of pain) felt warm now. He felt less miserable. Neville looked down at the crest on his robes.

And today, Neville was back. He stood outside Transfiguration, looking down the hallway that led to the Potions room.

Neville squared his shoulders, partly to stop the quaking, took a deep breath, and headed for Snape's class.