I was inspired. Truly. lol. A Severus/Remus fic for those waiting for a Beneath the Silk update.
Chapter One.

The fact was, Neville thought gloomily to himself as he walked up a staircase to the Gryffindor Tower, that his Grandmother could screech as long as it made her happy, and no one would consider him as anything more than a highly accident-prone, less than able, worst of the worst of wizards.

Whenever he began to think more of it, the depression would gnaw away at him.

Because he had kept his head down for the whole of his journey upstairs, he hadn't fallen through any trick steps, but he had run straight into a seventh year Slytherin who snarled at him and roughly pushed his way past. Neville didn't respond. What would be the use?

The minute he entered the Gryffindor Tower, everything would change.

He didn't care if Harry Potter only stayed around him because he felt sorry for him. He didn't care if Hermione wasn't really being so helpful out of the kindness of her heart. Whenever he stepped into the Tower, all the depressing thoughts would vanish: Neville the Longbottom was a nobody; Neville Longbottom, the Gryffindor boy was somebody: one of many. That was what he delighted in. And sorrowed in, of course, but usually, it would uplift him.

As it did now.

He would watch his fellow Gryffindors with a blissfully detatched eye. He would laugh at their jokes if they were funny enough, sympathise their problems if they were serious enough: He was as one of them as one could be.

Pretending not to notice Harry, as he usually did, he sat down next to one of the windows. He got out the book Moody had given to him two years before. He began to read.

Plants fascinated him: Neville could identify himself with them, something he couldn't do with humans, or at least, not as well. Their slow, steady growth he understood and sensed whenever he was near them. Their need of the Sun and of the nutrients within the Earth and - more specifically with magical herbs - the natural magic that sustained the Earth and ran through it.

He could feel their life: he would smile at the touching naivity of the young sapling, who was so busy trying to consume every single beam of sunlight, it sometimes forgot that if it grew too quickly as it basked, it would simply keel over.

The strange wisdom of the giant elders was comforting. The knowledge that their roots would entwine through the earth and protect and continue the flow of natural magic maintained his cheerful nature.

And no one else could understand.

Once, in their first year, he had had to do a detention in the Forbidden Forest with Harry Potter, Hermione and Draco Malfoy. He remembered as he stepped into the forest, he could hear the ancient, magical pulse to the grounds. He remembered their song: of weather storms, of unbalanced magical powers, of the need to take as much water as was possible, of the need to reach out and greedily absorb the sunlight that they could. As much as the songs were of individuality and the harsh methods to survival, they were also songs of communal growth, songs from the elder trees to the saplings, giving them advice of how best to grow their roots, their leaves, their barks. Songs to tell the saplings of what sort of blossom brings the most buzzing things. Songs of their history. Songs of their future as only trees could see it: in seasons.

So taken in with it had he been, that he hadn't realised Draco drop in step behind him, ready to creep up on him and say...

Neville shook himself.

He was so clumsy, though: so stupid and thick. He could barely do simple transfiguration. He was a coward. He was fat. He was...

"Unsatisfactory!"

That would be his Grandmother's voice, piercing through the still armour of his scholarly tranquility.

He sighed.

Lately, he noticed Harry look his way a lot. It seemed that he wanted to talk to him, but couldn't bring himself to.

Neville understood. How could he not? Harry Potter didn't want to be seen that way. Neville honestly didn't mind. He had heard it as said from his relatives before.

Plants.

Yes, yes... back to plants...

Trees were easy to understand. Bushes, shrubbery, non-flowering plants were too. The low-lying plants that gave forth flowers were simple as well, like trees in spring, with their precious blossom, exploiting their experiences of last spring to attract the bees. So vain, so pompous! Dafodills were sweet, because their flowers lasted for so short a perios of time. They weren't so arrogant. Roses were the worst. Neville swore that if they could walk, they would prick everyone in their path with their thorns, boasting of their pretty flowers all the way.

Rather like Malfoy.

Neville privately sniggered at this. The thought of Draco dressed up as a flower was very amusing: Neville thought of Professor Lupin with a thankful heart; the man had taught him how to laugh at the subjects of life.

Fungi were so simple, they could end up seeming very complicated.

They lived off the dead and the living. They needed warmth, moisture, light. Neville personally thought that pin-head mould was the most interesting. Hid Grandmother had given him a very severe telling off when she'd found mouldy bread underneath the precipices in his rooms.

"Neville?"

Longbottom looked up and smiled: what he didn't know, was that his smile was a very weak and shy one.

Harry sat next to him.

"You okay?" He asked, green eyes still.

"What? Oh... yeah... I'm fine... just reading..."

"That again?" Harry looked at the cover.

"Uh-huh. It's very good." Neville couldn't admit that having read it so much, all he really was interested in now were the pictures.

"Oh, okay. You know," Harry started, "would you like to come out with me 'n' Ron? Hermione will come too, if you want her to."

Neville hesitated.

He hadn't gone out with many students before, simply because none could really be considered of as friends.

"Okay... Let me put my book away."

~

Now *that* was an interesting flower, Neville though to himself. He had never seen one inside the Hogwarts grounds before. It was probably why he didn't know the name.

"Sorry, I'll catch up!" He called over his shoulder.

The other three shook their heads. "We'll stay here," Hermione called.

Smiling his gratitude, Neville walked up to the flower. He realised that it wouldn't be wise to pick it, because it was the only one of it's kind in the whole green. Taking a sketch book out of his bag, he got a pencil and quickly began to sketch, remembering where he was, so that he could come here again with his watercolours to encapture the clouring of the flower.

With his back to them, he didn't see the slightly shocked looks on the trio's faces.

He didn't notice anyone was in front of him until he realised that the blades of grass were singing their Dying song, the song they sang before returning to the earth. And it was very loud as if they were being killed partly due to magic.

Basically, as if a wizard was stepping on the grass.

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up.

Standing there, erect and dressed in his usual black, looking down an aquiline nose through curtains of greasy, shoulder length black hair, was Professor Snape.

An eyebrow was raised.

Neville began to stutter.

He wasn't good with adults, not at the best of times. They either laughed at him, thinking he was being a dear, or would snap at him and critisise him. The only adult who hadn't - no, the only two adults - had been Professor Moody and Professor Lupin. For now, he could only wait.

"Ermmm..." He hurriedly packed away his sketchbook and straightened up.

Snape's eyes were still cool. The eyebrow was still raised.

"S-sorry..." he gulped and scampered off to rejoin Harry, Hermione and Ron.

*

TBC...