Hello, Professor. Do you remember me? You probably don't. I was that round-faced, fretful boy who came very close to failing your class every single year. Yet I didn't. I've always wondered why. Why, that every year, the owl would bring me the new shopping list and Potions books would still be required. Why, that when I was at my most nervous during exams and obviously bombed it, I still scraped a passing grade. A low one, to be sure, but a passing one. Why?
I came across some old records a few weeks ago, when I was cleaning Professor Slughorn's office (I lost a bet. I guess mandrakes really do bite). Faded red ink over even less coherent black marks; my clumsy handwriting under yours, all upon fragile, long-forgotten parchment. And there it was. The reason I continued to toil away in the dungeons for seven long years. It was you. You made it just so I barely grazed half a point above the required grade. Did you see promise in me? I bet you didn't; no one did, not even I myself. So, why?
I suppose you knew that everyone was terrified of you. You were their worst nightmare, the meanest old codger in their life. You were a git. To me, to Harry, to Ron, to Hermione, to anyone and everyone but the Slytherins. Is it strange, to have your death avenged by the one that you expected the least of? And I understand your hatred. It's because of her. Of Lily. If Voldemort had chosen my mother instead of Harry's, Lily Evans would still be alive. And I understand that. Lost love made you bitter. In turn, you unleashed that bitterness onto your students. You were a git, but you were also a great man, the bravest I've ever known. The lengths you were prepared to go to save Harry's mum—it blew me away. The person who showed the least amount of love turned out to be someone who could love the most. It's rather, brilliant, really.
I work here now, at Hogwarts, so you'll be seeing me around quite a bit. You might not know this, but Harry installed a portrait of you in the headmaster's office—well, it's Headmistress Sprout's office now— and in the Gryffindor common room. I'll be sure to say hello if I see you. Of course, I can't say the same for you. But, thank you, Professor. Thank you for giving me another chance. Thank you for all you've done for the Wizarding World and beyond. Thank you.
Neville leaned back in his chair and examined his handiwork, ruefully glancing at the smudged ink and many crossed-out sentences. He shrugged to himself. It was simply for nostalgia's sake anyway, and in honor of the killing that occurred here, on this day, at Hogwarts, so many years ago. With a sigh, Professor Longbottom turned back to the stack of papers he was supposed to be grading—he was skiving off work more and more now, maybe it was time for a holiday. He resigned himself to yet another night of essays and diagrams when a silky voice spoke,
"Longbottom."
He stopped dead. Slowly, Neville glanced over his shoulder at the portrait on his office wall. It was usually one of Minerva McGonagall, the previous headmistress before Sprout, and who had passed away earlier this year. Now, however, instead of the revered witch's piercing green gaze, a pair of black eyes stared back. Neville swallowed. It was as if he was eleven years old again, with sweat sliding off his forehead in sheets as he gazed hopelessly at his smoldering cauldron. The portrait scowled with impatience.
"I said," Severus Snape repeated, "Longbottom."
Neville swallowed again and cleared his throat. "P-professor."
"Still as incompetent and tongue-tied as ever, I see," sighed the other.
"Yeah," Neville said, hesitantly meeting his former teacher's eyes. "Er, what made the sudden change…?"
"I heard that you were writing to me," he said crisply. "Might I hear it, perhaps?"
Neville flushed at his poor penmanship, but began reading anyway. There was a rather pregnant silence when he finished, and he found himself wiping his palms discreet down the side of his robes.
"Nothing's changed much, then," Snape said snidely. "I had hoped that becoming a professor and a Head of House would somehow streamline your rough edges, but apparently not. Your cloak is still clasped under your left ear, for starters, and you haven't lost a single ounce of your blubber."
"Thanks," Neville muttered.
"However," the dark, sallow man continued, "I was somewhat impressed with your slippery, graceful compliments. I haven't seen such a preposterous thing since Dumbledore and his lemon drops. As much as this pains me, I feel obliged to award Gryffindor a grudging five points for having such a slicked-tongued Head. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to attend to. Rather like you, I've noticed," he said, pointedly eyeing the paperwork piled on Neville's desk.
"Oh, erm, right. Yeah." Neville was sure his face was aflame. But one more thing had to be said. "Professor! Wait!"
Snape poked his head from beyond the frame irately. "What is it now?"
"It's good to see you," Neville grinned. Snape paused, taken aback. His face twitched oddly.
"You too, Longbottom," he said finally. "And tuck your shirt in!"
With that he was gone, leaving behind an empty backdrop. Neville smiled to himself and sat down again. He hadn't lied. The cutting remarks and the hooked nose brought back memories of his school life. And while they themselves aren't the most inviting thing, he hung on to those memories, lest he lose them forever. He barely saw his friends anymore, as they were Aurors and he was a teacher, but those memories would always be there.
"Thank you," he whispered one last time. "Thank you for everything."
AN: Gah, I just can't do Neville and/or Snape right. Writing only Marauder and Jily can have some drawbacks, I suppose. This is the second-to-last chapter, by the way. I hope the next one come out halfway decent…
~Gella
