7

"So you gave him a Kneazle?" Hermione asked, half-amused, half-disapproving. "Are you sure that was a good idea?"

"Well, no," Harry admitted. "But he did take it."

"Right before he burned down a Muggle street," Hermione pointed out.

In her lap, Crookshanks flicked his tail, his luminous eyes fixed on Neville. Could he smell the traces of fur Fiend had left on his robes? Or could he smell the residue of potions ingredients that proximity to Snape had probably transferred to him? Neville returned his gaze nervously, hoping the cat wouldn't try to give him away as it had Scabbers.

Then again, Scabbers had been a murderer. Neville was just lying to his friends.

Technically, he hadn't lied. He had told them he'd gone to visit his parents. He'd just left out a few little details, like his father talking and Snape showing up and his father's memories coming back and Fiend (Fiend, of all things!) crawling out of Snape's pocket.

Luckily, before Harry and Ron could question him too closely, Hermione had marched through the door, Crookshanks in tow, to regale them all with her tales of Australia. Neville had expected her to return wonderfully tanned, but she had explained that, as it was currently winter in the Southern Hemisphere, she and her parents had spent the past two weeks skiing, which didn't involve a lot of sun. Apparently her parents had decided racing down mountains on sticks was the best way to rebuild their trust in their daughter, who had Obliviated them without their permission.

Neville wondered what he and his dad would do, once his memories were restored. He hoped it wouldn't involve any bizarre Muggle sports, but he had no idea. He didn't know anything about his dad, or what he liked, or what kinds of things they might do together. With Gran, Neville had been dragged along to all kinds of social engagements, which had mostly involved standing in front of strangers while his grandmother critiqued him.

He hoped Dad wouldn't do that.

"...completely mental," Ron was explaining, with a look of awe and glee on his face. "Always knew he had it in him."

"That doesn't seem to have stopped you from giving him a kitten," Hermione said with a small frown. Crookshanks, who was still watching Neville, meowed in what was possibly supposed to be a reassuring manner.

"In our defense," Ron countered, "he didn't burn the houses down till after we gave him the Kneazle. We think that was the final straw."

"I talked to McGonagall about him the other day," Harry said. "Apparently he turned down the Defense job."

"I should hope so!" Hermione exclaimed. "How could she offer it to him, after everything?"

The boys looked surprised. "Hermione," Harry said in a reasonable tone, "you know he only did what he had to do -"

"Yes, I do!" Hermione said heatedly. "And what he had to do was awful! First he had to come back and teach at the school where he was bullied -" she cast Harry a half-apologetic, half-annoyed look - "even though he obviously hates children, and clearly has the talent to do so much more - all so he could wait for years until the wizard who murdered the woman he loved came back from the dead, so he could spy on him, which must have been terrifying! Then, as if that wasn't enough, he had to kill Dumbledore, the only person who trusted him, and pretend to be evil for a whole year, watching students get tortured, not being able to do anything about it - of course he doesn't want to come back! How could Professor McGonagall even think that he would?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I went through a lot of stuff at Hogwarts, but I wouldn't mind being back there."

"But people like you, Harry," Neville pointed out. The others all looked at him. "Snape spent all that time there and people hated him. I think if he went back now, they still would. Why would he want to spend the rest of his life like that? There's so much more he could do."

Ron snorted. "People are still going to hate him, no matter where he goes."

Hermione was giving Neville a curious look, which he tried to ignore as he said, "But not everyone will."

Ron snorted again, but Harry said, "You might be right. McGonagall said he's got some new project he's working on."

"Building a house, probably," Ron muttered.

"Whatever it is, he's keeping it quiet," Harry said. Neville tried not to fidget. "But maybe it's something he actually wants to do."

"Listen, mate, no matter what it is, people are still going to hate him. Even now that everyone knows why he killed Dumbledore, there's still the fact that he was a Death Eater -"

"I think he's more than made up for that, Ron!" Hermione said.

"- and he's still a greasy git! I don't care if he was on our side, he's still a bastard."

"He's not," Neville said quietly.

"No one's ever going to like him," Ron continued loudly, as if Neville hadn't spoken. "I don't understand why you're all acting like just because he fancied Harry's mum means he's a decent bloke! He was horrible to all of us for years! I would have thought you," he looked at Neville, "would be the last person to forgive him! He's your Boggart!"

"Not anymore," Neville said. "It changed years ago."

Ron looked staggered. "You're not afraid of Snape anymore?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, honestly, Ron. Neville's faced so much worse than Snape over the years."

"Anyway," Neville said, "I was afraid of Snape because he made me feel stupid. I'm not afraid of that anymore."

Ron's look of surprised skepticism was fairly insulting, but Neville chose to ignore it. Six years of sharing a dorm with Ron and Harry had inured him to almost anything they could do or say. Living at Grimmauld Place was just like being back in Gryffindor Tower, only now he had his own room.

"I'm going to check on my Mimbulus mimbletonia," he said. "Now that it's starting to reproduce, I need to keep an eye on it…"

Ron made a face, but no one tried to stop him.

Upstairs in his room, Neville took Trevor out of his terrarium (finally, as a reward for his role in the Battle of Hogwarts, Gran had agreed to buy him one) and fell back on the bed, giving only a cursory glance to his cactus. It was fine, of course. Cacti usually did best when left alone.

Like Snape. Neville had never expected, when he'd told the man about his dad, that Snape would actually try to do something about it. All his life, people had been telling him there was nothing to be done. Even Dumbledore had believed it. But no one had actually checked, not like Snape had. No one had believed in his dad, and so his dad had never gotten better.

No one had believed in Neville, either, but eventually he had decided to believe in himself. It had worked, sort of. He was a war hero, and all that. Still, he couldn't help wondering what he could have been like if someone had really believed in him, someone like Snape, who actually had the resolve to insist he get better.

Neville tried to shake off the sudden weird feeling inside him, a feeling almost like jealousy. Snape believed in his dad, but not in him. Why should that matter?

It doesn't, he told himself firmly. All that matters is that he's helping Dad.


The basement flat was small, but Severus had managed a few Extension Charms and there was finally enough room for all his bookcases, including the tallest one, which he had positioned beneath the sole window so his Mimbulus mimbletonia could get some light.

Because he had converted the windowless bedroom into a potions lab, he would be sleeping in what was intended to be the sitting room, but it hardly mattered; he didn't expect to be entertaining visitors, ever. His frugality over the years had ensured that he was not, at present, penniless. His expertise in potions ensured that he could secure an income almost immediately, if only as a contractor for St. Mungo's (and he was pleased to note that they'd been foaming at the mouth to have him). Still, his income for the foreseeable future would be limited, and the basement flat was all he could responsibly afford.

It was sufficient.

Now, if he could just get his Potions equipment put away before Fiend found it -

From one of the unpacked crates, Severus heard a toppling noise, followed by a tinkling and a delicate crash.

"Fiend!" he fumed, striding over to the crate. Sure enough, his glass scales (not priceless, but certainly pricy) had shattered to fill the bottom of the crate with glittering slivers of glass. Fiend crouched in the corner of the crate, licking her paw and shaking it.

Anger turned to concern in a mere heartbeat. "I suppose you cut yourself," he said, lifting her carefully out of the crate. "Let me see."

She mewed pitifully, but allowed him to turn over her paw to examine the soft pads underneath. A splinter of glass protruded from a small bloody spot in the center.

"In future," he said, flicking his wand once to remove the glass, once more to clean it, and one last time to heal the wound, "may I suggest you refrain from destroying glass objects. I realize it would be too much to hope that you would refrain from destroying things altogether, but at the very least exercise some sense of self-preservation. Glass is dangerous."

She licked her healed paw, then raised it, with a tender little meow, to his face, resting it softly against his jaw. He froze, surprised and ludicrously touched.

"You're welcome," he said, a little gruffly.

Far from accepting that as the dismissal he had intended it to be, Fiend nuzzled up beneath his chin, digging her tiny claws into his chest for purchase. He flinched, though whether at the sensation of her claws or the soft rumble of her pur, he couldn't have said.

"I have work to do," he reminded her.

She settled more firmly on his collarbone, nibbling his neck in a loving way. It felt very strange, and very pleasant. Against his will, he began to understand why Filch was so absurdly attached to his cat.

Merlin, was he losing his mind?

He opened his mouth to tell her off, but all that came out was a ragged sigh.

"Very well. I suppose we can save the rest of the crates for later."

Fiend crooned contentedly. Severus wondered whether he was doomed to spend his whole life a slave.


A soft knock at the door pulled Neville from his uncomfortable musings. Hermione poked her head inside. "Neville? Are you all right?"

Neville didn't answer right away, and Hermione came in and shut the door, settling on the edge of the bed and giving Trevor a brief glance. Neville knew what she must be thinking. As a younger student, Neville had always held his toad for comfort.

"What was it like seeing your parents again?" he asked suddenly. "When they remembered you?"

Hermione looked surprised, then grief and understanding flooded her face. That was the nice and also awkward thing about Hermione: when it came to feelings, she usually understood things right away.

"It was… Well, Neville, it was wonderful." She frowned. "And terrifying."

"Why terrifying?"

"Because I Obliviated them, and sent them halfway across the world." She bit her lip. "I tore apart the life they spent years building, and made them start over, and then I showed up and all I could really say was 'sorry,' because what else can I say?"

"Did they forgive you?"

"Of course," she said, waving this away. Neville envied her easy confidence. "They're my parents. They did try to make me give up the magical world -"

"They did?" Neville asked, horrified.

"Yes, but I talked them out of it," she said, again with easy self-assurance. "After all, the Muggle world is just as dangerous, in its own way. And Muggle wars are much worse than Wizarding ones, overall. At least with magic I can protect myself."

Neville nodded. He was glad her Muggle parents could recognize that. His own family had made it clear that without magic he would be utterly helpless in the world. He would never want Hermione to have to go through that.

"Was it hard?" he asked. "To know that they were… disappointed?"

Hermione gave him a sharp look. "I don't think your parents would be disappointed in you, Neville. Just look at what you did! Resisting the Death Eaters at Hogwarts! Fighting in the battle! Cutting off Nagini's head! You defied Voldemort, just like your parents did. I think they would be very proud."

"But all of that was part of the war. What about everything else? I'm not good at magic -"

"If this is about Ron -"

"No. I mean, yes. But it's true, isn't it? I was never any good at school -"

"You were great at Herbology," Hermione pointed out.

"But that's not magic," Neville reminded her. "My parents were -" He stopped abruptly.

"Your parents were Aurors," Hermione finished for him. "Which meant they were good at a lot of subjects."

"I wasn't," Neville said needlessly.

"Just because you're not your parents doesn't mean they wouldn't be proud of you." She smiled slightly. "My parents aren't any less proud of me because I'm not a dentist, you know."

Neville couldn't help smiling slightly at that, too. The entire concept of dentistry still struck him as half-absurd, half-frightening.

"Do you think they ever wish you were different?"

A shadow crossed Hermione's face. Slowly, she said, "Sometimes, I think they do." She smiled slightly. "But all I have to do is Conjure some birds or Transfigure a pocketwatch and they're over the moon about it again."

Neville cringed. "I can't do either of those things."

"You're amazing with plants."

"It's not the same," Neville said. "It's not… impressive."

"You mean it's not flashy," Hermione replied. She shook her head. "Don't you remember what Professor Snape said in our first Potions class? About how there would be little foolish wand-waving, so most people would hardly believe it was magic?"

Neville did remember. He had cherished the hope, for a few brief moments, that he might actually be good at that class. Then Snape had started quizzing Harry, and Neville had been certain that if the Boy Who Lived was terrible at Potions, he definitely would be.

"Just because something isn't flashy doesn't mean it isn't important," Hermione said. "There are a lot of branches of magic where wands aren't necessary, or at least aren't pivotal. Besides Herbology, there's Astronomy, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Occlumency, Legilimency -"

Neville started. "I thought you needed a wand for Legilimency?"

"No," Hermione said absently, "no, a wand makes it easier, but Harry said Professor Snape could do it without a wand if he wanted to… And Legilimency definitely wouldn't look flashy, would it? To the outside observer, it probably looks like nothing's happening at all..."

Neville, remembering how boring it had been to watch Snape and his father stare at each other, nodded.

"But you wouldn't say Legilimency's not impressive, would you? And Herbology's definitely more interesting to watch than that. A little too interesting, sometimes," she added, rubbing her hands, and Neville knew she was remembering the Bubotuber pus someone had sent her after the stupid Rita Skeeter article about her love triangle.

Hermione was right, though. Snape had gone out of his way to point out that even subjects that didn't require a wand were magic. And two of Snape's most impressive areas of expertise were Potions and Legilimency, neither of which was flashy. (Well, Potions was usually flashy when Neville was brewing, but that definitely wasn't a good thing.)

Yet again, Neville felt a pang of regret. If only Snape had taught that first class differently…

But no. Neville wouldn't have liked Potions anyway, not with the dead animal parts and careful calculations and grace required. Herbology, though… Herbology was all about taking care of things. And it was fun. Squishing dead animal pieces together in a bowl wasn't fun.

But Snape must like Herbology, or he couldn't be good at Potions. Neville wondered, with a slight flush, if Professor Sprout had ever mentioned Neville's talent to him, as she had mentioned it to the Moody who had turned out to be one of the wizards who had tortured his parents.

Snape probably wouldn't have believed it, if she had.

"Neville," Hermione asked, "what's really wrong?"

"I was just thinking about Snape," he said. "And how, well… I wish things had been different."

Hermione gave him a puzzled look. It was obvious that this time she did not understand. "Why?"

Neville shrugged. "I just think I would have been a better person."

"If things had been different with Snape?" she asked, confused. "But… I thought we were talking about your parents?"

Neville shrugged again, helplessly. He didn't understand himself what he was feeling. For his dad, for Snape… for his mother, who might never come back. He wanted something, but he didn't know what.

"I just -" he started, when the sound of the doorbell cut him off.

"Go on," Hermione said, though her hand had reflexively darted to her wand, just as his had.

"No," Neville said. "Let's see who it is."

Hermione looked both reluctant and relieved. Neville knew that she, like him, couldn't stand the thought of someone being inside their safe space without their knowledge.

They were out on the landing when they heard Ron shout from below, "Oy! Harry! There's a package for you! Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!" As an afterthought, he added, "I didn't know George was back in business..."

Neville and Hermione exchanged a quick, alarmed look.

"Ron -" Hermione started to call out.

"Don't -" Neville began to shout.

"Protego!" Harry screamed.

Everything exploded into black.