Title: In War and Peace
Pairing: Neville/Theodore
Word count: ~2400 (this chapter)
Rating: Eventual Mature Content
Warnings: Mpreg, slash, violence, sexual situations, language, angst, hurt/comfort, character death (not Theodore or Neville)
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Summary: Theodore Nott is assigned as Neville Longbottom's Potions tutor and an unlikely relationship blossoms. However, there are dark times ahead. Voldemort is gathering his forces to fight the side of Light. People they thought were allies turn their backs on them. In the end they have two options: become warriors and risk their lives and love for each other. Or run away.
Author's notes: WiP.
Monday sneaked upon him and once he realised it was there he freaked out and floated through the rest of the day like a zombie, aghast that he had not dived into the Potions textbook already yet unable to do anything about it.
It was ten past six when Neville stumbled gracelessly into the library, breathing heavily from running to the fourth floor, and earned a sharp shush from Madam Pince. He had been toying with the idea of skipping the tutoring entirely to retreat as a recluse in the mountains somewhere, but his inner Gryffindor (that so rarely reared its head) had come through at the last minute and didn't allow him off the hook.
Nott was leaning against one of the round mahogany tables at the window-side of the vast room. His arms were folded, and his brows lowered as Neville hurried anxiously towards him.
"I'm so, so sorry I'm late," Neville stammered. He felt utterly stupid and not to mention childish in the tall and composed Slytherin's presence. Cold sweat trickled down his spine and he drew in too much air, ending in a coughing fit that startled the occupants in the library out of their homework-induced stupors.
Nott's stoic attitude dropped along with a deep sigh. "Merlin, give me strength," he muttered, and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Neville stood awkwardly in front of him, blotchy and teary and gasping. Nott peered through his lashes, the hand still half-covering his face. "Right. Enough time wasted. Let's get the formalities out of the way."
To Neville's amazement, Nott dropped the hand and presented it to him. Their eyes met when Neville's clammy fingers touched Nott's palm, and Nott's lips quirked. "Theodore Nott, Slytherin House."
Neville blushed and for a desperate moment forgot his own name. "Neville Longbottom," he eventually responded. "Um, Gryffindor House."
"Nice to meet you," Nott said, letting go and subtly wiping his hand on his trousers. "Shall we?" He gestured for Neville to sit and pulled out a chair beside him.
"All right." Neville faked confidence as best as he could, which really wasn't good at all. He had never been adept at acting; his career extended to one miserable performance as the Christmas star in a Yule play at Infant School, and all he'd had to do was standing rigid for an hour. He had toppled off the stage half-way through.
He flung his satchel on top of the table with more bravado than he inhibited, working hard to contain his fear and nervousness. All Slytherins were the same sly bastards and Neville was terrified Nott would be as bad as Malfoy.
He loosened his tie and pushed the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt to his elbows, revealing boyish, hairless forearms. He bit his tongue in annoyance when he discovered that he had dirt under his nails from Herbology earlier. As if he didn't look grubby enough.
"Open your book at chapter one, please." Nott's smooth drawl lacked enthusiasm.
Lead formed in his stomach and Neville's hands felt like a troll's as he located the right page. Merlin, he hoped Nott didn't decide to quiz him. It wasn't a secret that he was a vegetable when it came to Potions, but he was allergic to any sort of tests. He got a rash, true fact, and sometimes he threw up. Gosh, why hadn't he come more prepared?
Nott had his fingers spread over his own copy of the textbook. They were both delicate and strong-looking, and his nails were short and manicured. He would not be flabbergasted if Nott told him he played the piano.
Not that Nott would ever degrade himself to offer Neville Longbottom, Clown of the Century, personal information like that.
The boy slid his new quill behind an ear, the midnight-black feather springing forward to brush adoringly against a pale, high cheekbone. He glanced up to catch Neville staring. The mint-green colour of his iris intensified, and Neville was reminded of how he used to dream of green or blue or grey eyes when he was younger. However, his boring brown ones fit rather perfectly on his plain, uninteresting face.
"We're meeting twice a week," Nott said slowly, deliberately, while holding Neville's gaze. "Mondays and Thursdays at precisely six o'clock. I want Potions to be your main priority this term." Nott's jaw tensed and released. "We have a lot of work to do."
Oh. So Nott did plan to take these sessions seriously. He bet Snape hadn't counted on that. Neville disguised his puzzlement and nodded solemnly. "I'll do my best," he hastily promised, praying it was what Nott wanted to hear.
Nott broke the eye-contact and hung his head in an un-Slytherin-like show of despair, and he let out a small groan that made Neville involuntarily curl his toes. "I certainly hope that is enough, Longbottom."
Of course, Neville knew that it wouldn't be. He worried his lips, and then forced words to tumble across them. "I'm sorry that Professor S-Snape made you do this. I know I'm hopeless and that this is a frustrating situation for you. I'm really sorry you have to deal with..." He gulped and looked down, crestfallen. "…Me. Sorry."
There was a pause, in which Neville agonised over his stuttering and Nott's knuckles whitened. Then Nott cleared his throat and said, "Stop apologising, will you? I have a lot of experience tutoring, so this will be fine. Pardon me if you got the wrong impression. I guess I am…tired."
Neville fingered the edges of his book. He didn't trust his voice to speak.
"Well, I think it is about high time we commence the lesson of this evening," Nott continued, when Neville failed to answer. "Longbottom, are you ready? Good. Chapter one: potion-making and the lunar cycle. What can you tell me about it?"
The lake was still, its surface so black and blank that it reflected the trees around it and the mountains that rose majestically behind them. Neville's face stared back at him from its immovable surface, brown eyes like gaping holes above a running, red nose and chapped lips.
He had finally been released from detention. Snape had ordered him to polish the glass bottles that gathered dust in his storage cupboard. It took three hours to finish the job, and with aching joints and cobweb in his hair, Neville had decided that he needed fresh air before bedtime.
The sun was setting, its low golden beams pooling in every nook and dip in the landscape. Neville sighed and settled back on his calves.
Today had been one of those days. Having detention on top of it all… Neville was physically and mentally drained.
Malfoy had been in a mood and tormented Neville each time they crossed paths. He tossed remarks after him, cracked jokes about his parents, and poked him viciously with his wand. Harry had told Malfoy off at one point, though the blond only increased the taunting until Harry shut up and demonstratively walked away, taking Ron and Hermione with him.
Neville was used to block it out; he didn't know why his emotions ran wild or why he was so vulnerable lately.
Luckily, Herbology with Hufflepuff had lifted his spirits severely. It was by far his favourite subject, and the Hufflepuffs were nice, harmless people. Fresh out of class, he bubbled with joy he hadn't experienced in ages. He didn't even hesitate to smile at Nott as they stepped into the Great Hall at the same time and was jostled together by the crowd.
Malfoy, of course, couldn't let Neville be happy for long. The blond snake had followed him down to the dungeons after dinner, his slithering, hissing voice echoing around the dark and damp space. Entering Snape's office had actually been a relief, albeit a short-lived one.
Stupid Malfoy. Neville brought his hands up and rested his head in them. Harry said he was worth twelve of him. He sort of understood that, since he wasn't a spoiled, bullying, evil prat. But Malfoy had the fortune, intelligence and looks – and what more was there to it, really, in the end?
Also, Malfoy possessed an incredible drive. There was a passion and intensity about him that Neville, and he suspected Harry too, admired, and he looked bloody brilliant when he got going, like an avenging angel. Something fluttered in his stomach at the thought of Malfoy, and he frowned.
He pulled his robes tighter around him, and with a shudder at the cold he left the deserted Hogwarts grounds for the warmth of the castle. Maybe he wouldn't feel so raw tomorrow. Maybe a cup of hot chocolate before bed would sooth his frayed edges.
He grasped for the golden knobs just as the front doors swung open. Nott stepped aside when he saw Neville, letting him through first.
"Longbottom," he greeted, holding one door open like a servant welcoming his master home.
"Hi," Neville replied, restraining a grin at Nott's evident struggle to be flawlessly well-mannered.
Nott held up a broom. "Going to practise," he explained. Neville had heard about Quidditch try-outs next week. It wasn't something he considered. With his balance and poise he knew he would be a terrible player.
"Nice broom," Neville complimented. It was a stupid thing to say, but Neville had never claimed to be a great conversationalist.
Nott chuckled but thanked him, and then he strode out into the weak orange light. Neville watched him until the doors slid shut, plunging him in darkness.
Neville groaned and threw down his quill in irritation. Nott had given him an assignment for Thursday – yes, already! – and he didn't fathom any of it. The headline was the single constructive thing he had written.
He had Astronomy class tonight, and he didn't have time tomorrow before their scheduled meeting at six o'clock. That meant he had to finish it now.
"Merlin," he whimpered, tearing at his hair and relishing the slight pain. He didn't tackle pressure well. Time ticked by, and Neville became more stressed and less productive.
"Problem, Longbottom?" Nott's posh upper-class accent was easily recognisable, and Neville's heart raced like an untamed horse in his chest – pathetically over-exited because someone actually acknowledged him.
Neville gave a helpless shrug. "You could say that," he murmured, removing ink-stained hands from the wrinkled parchment.
Nott, to his surprise, sat down at his table, bringing with him cool outdoor air. His hair was damp from the rain that had come overnight and upset the lake and turned the grounds muddy. He eyed the plate with brownies and shook his head incredulously.
"What?" Neville was defiant and too on edge to be shy about it. "I was hungry. And sugar is good for the brain, you know."
Arching an eyebrow, Nott grabbed a brownie off the plate and pushed it away so that he could rest his elbows on the gleaming wooden surface. "I'm not complaining." He grinned, flashing white teeth, and took a bite, eyes fastened on Neville as he chewed.
Neville blinked, taken aback by Nott's behaviour. "Um, had a good day?" he tried.
"Oh, not particularly," Nott replied. "Watching you cry and rip off your own hair in public was only so entertaining. Here, let me see."
"Wasn't crying," Neville corrected. He was ashamed to hear petulance in his voice.
Nott snorted, muttered, "Poor little sod," and then went about deciphering Neville's unreadable scrawl.
The plate of brownies was empty, only scattered with crumbs and sticky fingerprints. The light in the library had dimmed, and the glow from the candle on their table was warm against Neville's face.
Nott was reading through Neville's assignment one last time, a slight curl to his upper lip and green eyes soft as they tracked the words. The tension Neville had seen in him on Monday had evaporated; it was as if practising Quidditch drained him of the energy to keep up the typical stiff posture that belonged to Slytherins. He had even undone his tie and the top buttons of his shirt. His brown hair was tousled from running his pianist's hands through it, often in mute frustration at Neville's slow wit.
Neville slumped over and rested his head on his folded arms while he waited. Hermione sat in a corner with a large tome in her lap, and there was a group of Ravenclaws engaged in a heated, whispered discussion in another. Madam Pince was at her desk, sorting through a tall stack of books that teetered dangerously.
Raindrops tapped against the windows. Neville could hear the wind blowing, too. He let his eyes drift shut, felt the tender aching in his back from detention the previous day, and just listened to the pouring rain and the occasional scratch of Nott's black-feathered quill against Neville's cheap, rough parchment.
The scratching stopped and there was a rustle of fabric as Nott stretched his long legs. Neville could sense eyes on him, and peeked through his fringe and up.
"It is perfect," Nott said quietly in the emptying library. "You should be proud."
Neville sat, left cheek prickling after having been pressed against his shirtsleeves. "Well. I've had a lot of help from you," he whispered back, pleased nonetheless.
Nott smirked. "Obviously."
Neville shot him a mock-glare and Nott's smirk widened. "There are some misspellings, but you have done a great job considering your understanding of the subject."
"Thanks." Neville grinned despite his reserved demeanour.
"You are most welcome," Nott returned gallantly, and bowed his head before Neville could catch the responding smile.
They walked together to the spot where they had to part; Neville needed to manoeuvre his way to the Astronomy Tower from the top of the main staircase, while Nott had to descend it to get to the Slytherin dormitories.
"Okay, um, I'm going in that direction." Neville clutched the book bag to his chest (the strap was torn and he had temporarily forgotten the spell to fix it) and shifted on his feet.
Nott paused, a hand on the marble banister, and glanced over his shoulder.
"See you tomorrow at six, right?"
"Of course," Nott affirmed. "Good night." Then he dragged his eyes away, and the expensive robes flowed behind him as he went.
Neville's skin on his chest grew hot and tight, and as he walked up and up and up, he found himself smiling.
TBC