Neville felt a familiar stab of pain in his lower stomach as soon as the thestrals lurched forward to start taking his carriage from Hogsmeade station to Hogwarts. The first time he had experienced it, was as a five year old. Then again, that was also among his earliest memories so he couldn't be sure. Grandmum had held his pudgy little hand in hers, and Neville remembered thinking how cold they were. Maybe thin people had cold hands, he had wondered and wanted to test his theory by touching the fat woman in pink who rode up the lift with them. He had swung his free, left hand to graze the woman's arm lightly. She had turned her face at that and peered down at him, giving him a sweet smile. He had smiled back, quite taken by a black bow she had worn on her head. Grandmum had stiffened at that, and ushered him out of the lift hurriedly, as the gates opened to the fourth floor of Saint Mungo's.
As soon as Neville had spotted the closed doors of the Janus Thickey ward, a spasm of pain had passed. Instinctively, he had tightened his grip on Grandmum's hand and she had looked down at him, frowning. Actually he couldn't be sure of that either; he may have been projecting that expression he had seen so many times in his life, on her face at that particular moment.
''Professor Sprout said that I plotted the mandrakes better than even Hermione Granger in the practicals''.
*Disbelieving frown*
''I…uhm…Potions..I..don't like''.
*Angry frown*
"I got accepted into the Auror programme."
*Don't-state-the-obvious-boy-of course-you-did,-you-are-the-Vanquisher-of-Voldemort's-Vile-Snake-(Viper?) frown*
For a second, Neville imagined what she would say if things went badly today. Or if they went well. There it was-another stab of that pain.
During his first few years at school, it had been a thrice-weekly occurrence. It would shoot through him right before Potions class, as the disorderly bunch of Gryffindors descended to the dungeons. A few days after the Christmas break in fifth year, as they walked side-by-side, Hermione had seen him cringe at the pain. And once Hermione noticed, she pried, and once she pried she knew, when she knew, she pried some more-mostly in the library, and really she was quite unstoppable in the library, so she invariably solved. Within the week, she was plonking herself on the armchair next to Neville's in the common room and carefully moving her index finger along the table of contents in a fat, glossy book.
Neville had craned his neck to look at the title listed on the header of the page to find that it was a translated version of one Yogasutra. He vaguely seemed to remember Binns talking about it in reference to the development of Legilimency though Hermione had turned to a page that listed some fairly innocuous breathing exercises. There had been helpful illustrations of a thin, topless man, demonstrating the exercises that she mimicked unconsciously while pointing out the relevant ones. Then in her usual bossy way, she had extracted a promise from Neville to practise them every day. For the first few weeks after that she would check in to see if he had indeed practised, and would flash him a smile that was at once surprised, and proud, when he told her that he had.
He didn't understand her surprise though. He always listened to Hermione. The only time he hadn't, was that time in first year when he hadn't wanted her to enable Harry and Ron's delinquency by letting them traipse through the school after curfew. And she had promptly hexed him. Quite deservedly, Neville thought, though Dumbledore had made up some bullshit about the importance of standing up to friends to award grace points to Gryffindor and let them win the House Cup.
Standing up to people was over-rated. Who knows what would have happened if You-Know-Who had made his comeback when Harry was still eleven because Neville had been a self-righteous idiot? Sure, he shouldn't have let Malfoy bully him (would that prat send his children to Hogwarts? Maybe it was finally time for some retribution). But why not listen to friends? Crabbe was pretty much a lesson in what happened to witless cronies when they didn't listen to what their slightly-more-intelligent but infinitely-more-annoying leaders had to say-they burnt to death in a fire of their own making.
Then again, if Neville hadn't let Ginny and Luna (respectively) goad and cajole him into becoming the reluctant leader of Dumbledore's army during that awful seventh year, he wouldn't suddenly be seen as some badass part-saviour of the world (it did sound much better than it actually was). Then his war-hero status wouldn't have obliged Kingsley to offer him a position on the Auror squad. But it would still have been alright till that point if Neville hadn't messed up by listening to Ron ('Mate, it will be just like old times') and actually taking up Kingsley on the offer.
After that, it had been like that old pain had gone and taken up permanent residence in his stomach. It wasn't a sharp stab anymore, but a continuous dull throb that no amount of deep breathing exercises could alleviate. He consulted a healer at Mungo's but her potions weren't much help and Neville didn't think that a bureaucrat like Hermione, brilliant as she was, would succeed where an expert had failed.
Then Ron had gone and resigned from the squad and Harry was never around with the Chief monopolising all his time to groom him as his own protégé. The last straw on the hippogriff's back was Neville being partnered with Zacharias Smith. It was people like Smith with zero fighting experience, Pettigrew-like instincts and dung for brains that needed grooming, not top of the class Harry who would succeed either way, Neville had thought. At least that helped make up his mind; as soon as he had heard Sprout was looking to retire, he threw in his name for the position of Herbology professor. And so here he was, as the carriage stopped in front of the school doors, to interview with McGonagall and Sprout.
Neville straightened his robes a bit, held on to his briefcase and then hopped down, landing gracelessly, but thankfully, still on his two feet. He immediately winced, second-guessing himself on whether this was professor-like behaviour. Did a young Dumbledore ever trip on his robes? Did Flitwick get bullied for his physical appearance? Did McGonagall ever flunk potions? Ooh maybe Snape flunked Transfiguration. Maybe Snape was pants at Herbology.
He, Snape that is, had probably been like Malfoy at school. Greasy hair was probably the Dark Mark equivalent of school yard bullies. What a coincidence that both also had real Dark Marks. Yes, yes Snape was a hero, but you have to be somewhat evil if you decided to feed a dubious looking potion brewed by an incompetent 13 year old to a living breathing animal. What if something irreversible had happened to Trevor?
This thing, not just this interview but this whole teaching thing, was do-able, Neville thought, with a sudden surge of confidence. He would be better than Snape at least, in nurturing talent, wouldn't he? He hadn't been serious earlier; of course he wouldn't actually terrorise any offspring Malfoy unleashed on the world. Probably. And he wasn't a charlatan like Trelawney-Neville actually knew plants, Sprout would attest to that. Neville didn't think making students read from a book was a legitimate way of instructing a class. Or that it was okay if students were maimed as long as it made for a more interesting session. There were too many teachers who answered to that description at Hogwarts-what with Moody (well, fake Moody), the Carrows, and even Hagrid, Neville thought guiltily, being allowed to make their own syllabus as they saw fit.
Where was he going with this line of thinking, Neville scolded himself, as he rounded up the corridor which housed the Headmistress's office. One look from McGonagall had been successful in quelling even the Weasely twins in school. What if she asked questions from Transfiguration? What were the fourth and fifth exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration? Defence against the Dark Arts would be fine, since he was an Auror, though Neville wasn't sure he remembered much of the theory anymore. Not that it ever came to use. School syllabi was such a farce, they expected you to learn reams of nonsense that had only had little practical value. If they asked him some obscure theorem, he really couldn't be blamed for not clearing this interview.
There was no shame in not clearing an interview, not when no one knew he was appearing for one. Not when the most powerful wizard of all time had failed. Of course he had gone on to jinx the position for the duration of his life (and Neville was using the word life very loosely). Maybe he could do it too. If Neville couldn't have the position, no one else could. Too bad he didn't have a horcrux on hand he could plant in the Room of Requirement. That ridiculous thought made Neville chuckle to himself before he remembered that there was no Room of Requirement anymore.
He frowned, realising that he had reached his destination and had been staring at the gargoyle for almost a minute, while idiotically smiling to himself. He shook his head as if to clear his mind and started rummaging in his pockets for his call letter that contained the password. When he couldn't find it, Neville prayed that he had left it at home. That would be a surmountable problem, especially when the alternative was that a mass murdering fugitive had gotten his hands on it. There it was-that blasted stab of pain. Really, auror or not, Neville was destined to live with it.