(I don't own Harry Potter! Right . . . now on with the fic.)
Potions.
By Merlin's beard I hate that class. Potions; an hour of absolute hell.
I would not mind the subject so much; but it's the class. Potions, with Snape. Snape, Severus Snape, the infamous overgrown bat, and my worst nightmare.
He scares me.
No, shut up, please don't laugh! He scares me more than all of Hogwarts knows. I can just feel his icy eyes on my back and the fear surfaces. My heart works overtime; I can't draw breath.
And my mind begins to scream . . . softly at first, and then louder. Louder. And then it's all I hear.
I wouldn't be so awful in Potions if I could concentrate.
But I'm afraid of him.
And it's so hard to describe the panic attacks; there's just the terror. And my mind screams, Neville, you fool, get out of here. GET OUT! But I can't.
His eyes sneer. It's all I can do not to collapse.
I have never seen him smile. Well - smile, perhaps, but not really smile. No true happiness in his smiles, only cold, calculated sneers.
Does he know that he can bring me to the ground within minutes? Reduce me to a sniveling heap of tears?
Would he care?
No, and no, I'm sure, and if the answer to the first is yes then the second is,t oo, because if he knows, he's playing on it.
And I'm so afraid, so very . . . .
Longbottom, he says, is the Gryffindor Most Likely to Blow Up the Earth with a Faulty Potion.
And then the look on his face throws my mind beyond capacity.
I leave potions each time and I cry. I cry for the class I could enjoy; I've always loved to mix things together. I cry for just the sheer relief of it. Potions is over.
Not till next time.
But next time always comes too soon.
Snape's eyes always look at me with such hate. Not the hate he has for Harry- oh, I'd hate to be Harry. The little tiny bit of strength I have now that I use to keep from passing out, from letting the fear overwhelm me, would not be enough under that look.
I wouldn't survive.
But he hates me enough. Old, stupid Neville who can't brew a potion for his life. I often wonder if I should tell somebody just how afraid I am. But who would listen? Harry, famous Harry, and Hermione, the brilliant one, and Ron, their faithful sidekick - why should they care that I'm losing my mind? I lose my mind just a little more every Potions class.
I lose my heart every time I see Snape's eyes. I never would have believed anyone's eyes could be so cold.
Maybe that's why I'm so afraid. So afraid.
What would they say?
But - then again - they couldn't know. They couldn't know unless they had felt this kind of fear before. It's the sort of thing you don't want to know.
Potions class - an hour of absolute hell.
Don't make me go back . . . don't make me go back don't make me go back don'tmakemegobackthere please.
But I have to.
And face Snape.
(Hide your fear, Neville, hide your tears. All they expect is a stupid façade. Give them that and you will be happy. They will be happy. And- Neville - talk to McGonagall later. Or Dumbledore. Silence is better spread than single. )
Potions.
By Merlin's beard I hate that class. Potions; an hour of absolute hell.
I would not mind the subject so much; but it's the class. Potions, with Snape. Snape, Severus Snape, the infamous overgrown bat, and my worst nightmare.
He scares me.
No, shut up, please don't laugh! He scares me more than all of Hogwarts knows. I can just feel his icy eyes on my back and the fear surfaces. My heart works overtime; I can't draw breath.
And my mind begins to scream . . . softly at first, and then louder. Louder. And then it's all I hear.
I wouldn't be so awful in Potions if I could concentrate.
But I'm afraid of him.
And it's so hard to describe the panic attacks; there's just the terror. And my mind screams, Neville, you fool, get out of here. GET OUT! But I can't.
His eyes sneer. It's all I can do not to collapse.
I have never seen him smile. Well - smile, perhaps, but not really smile. No true happiness in his smiles, only cold, calculated sneers.
Does he know that he can bring me to the ground within minutes? Reduce me to a sniveling heap of tears?
Would he care?
No, and no, I'm sure, and if the answer to the first is yes then the second is,t oo, because if he knows, he's playing on it.
And I'm so afraid, so very . . . .
Longbottom, he says, is the Gryffindor Most Likely to Blow Up the Earth with a Faulty Potion.
And then the look on his face throws my mind beyond capacity.
I leave potions each time and I cry. I cry for the class I could enjoy; I've always loved to mix things together. I cry for just the sheer relief of it. Potions is over.
Not till next time.
But next time always comes too soon.
Snape's eyes always look at me with such hate. Not the hate he has for Harry- oh, I'd hate to be Harry. The little tiny bit of strength I have now that I use to keep from passing out, from letting the fear overwhelm me, would not be enough under that look.
I wouldn't survive.
But he hates me enough. Old, stupid Neville who can't brew a potion for his life. I often wonder if I should tell somebody just how afraid I am. But who would listen? Harry, famous Harry, and Hermione, the brilliant one, and Ron, their faithful sidekick - why should they care that I'm losing my mind? I lose my mind just a little more every Potions class.
I lose my heart every time I see Snape's eyes. I never would have believed anyone's eyes could be so cold.
Maybe that's why I'm so afraid. So afraid.
What would they say?
But - then again - they couldn't know. They couldn't know unless they had felt this kind of fear before. It's the sort of thing you don't want to know.
Potions class - an hour of absolute hell.
Don't make me go back . . . don't make me go back don't make me go back don'tmakemegobackthere please.
But I have to.
And face Snape.
(Hide your fear, Neville, hide your tears. All they expect is a stupid façade. Give them that and you will be happy. They will be happy. And- Neville - talk to McGonagall later. Or Dumbledore. Silence is better spread than single. )