LOST PERSPECTIVE 7

PAYBACK TIME

By Bellegeste

A/N: This is it - the final chapter. I feel quite sad when I get to the end of a story... This chapter started out in my mind as a one shot, as I said before - so all the preceding chapters have really been background, fleshing out what goes on here.

Oh, and Neville thinks a rude word in this chapter! Go Neville!

Reviews. Duj: I never rule out the possibility of a sequel, though I have no immediate plans to continue this one any further at present. I want to wait for the developments in HBP. This chapter brings the story to what I hope is a climax, though not necessarily a full resolution. But in life the loose ends are not always neatly tied. There will always be room to deliberate on how someone reacts to this or somebody else feels about that...I just felt that I had taken this particular thread as far as I wanted to, though it lays the foundation for possible later interaction between certain characters.

.psst! You all remember the button, right? Hey! Were you paying attention in those early chapters? LOL

Chapter 16:THE BUTTON

"Oh, it's you." Snape barely glanced up.

"Yes, it's me." After some consultation with Harry and Hermione, Neville had decided to adopt an affirmative strategy: he was going to agree with everything Snape said, and try to survive the ordeal through sheer positivity.

"Well, don't just stand there… come in, and don't let the door - "

A through draught from goodness knows where - this underground torture-chamber of an office didn't have a window to create a draught - had plucked the door from Neville's grasp and sent it swinging back with a reverberating crash. Several sheets of parchment were blown off Snape's desk and sailed out onto the dungeon floor.

"…slam." Snape completed his sentence dryly.

"Sorry, Sir," Neville whimpered, scurrying to pick up the fallen papers. They were maps and charts of - Neville rotated a page to read the heading - of the Snape Estate. He hurried to pop them back on the desk, replacing them on top of what looked like an architectural blueprint of a cottage.

"Sorry, Sir," he repeated, contrite and already somewhat dismayed. This was not a good start.

"Hmm." Snape was engrossed in a complex calculation. The paper he was working on was a maze of characters, symbols and runic formulae. "I shall be with you in a minute, Longbottom," he said, preoccupied, not taking his eyes off the mathematical grid. "Stand over there and don't move. Don't touch anything."

"Yes, Sir," Neville agreed, doing precisely as he was told. He stood and watched the Potions master as he referred to a thick volume of ciphers, logograms, hieroglyphs and cryptograms, flicking through a galaxy of astrological concordances, pin-pointing an equation here an encoding there and adding them to his extensive list. Neville had no idea what Snape was doing; it looked horribly complicated - numerology? Arithmancy? Or something darker? He didn't dare ask. He simply waited, getting colder as he stood obediently still (his nose was starting to drip again), but, unaccountably, sweating all the more.

Snape must have brought the chaos of figures to some conclusion, for he closed the book and straightened the papers. Finally he looked up to meet Neville's bemused gaze.

"I intend to strengthen the security wards around my estate," he explained, unnecessarily. He didn't have to justify himself to a student. And then, even more unexpectedly,

"You haven't seen Professor Lupin anywhere in the castle, have you?"

Remus? Neville gulped and spluttered a panicky negative. Why did Snape want Remus? What was he planning to do to him? Oh, he was a cold fish, was Snape.

"N-n-no, Sir." He sniffed.

"Pity."

Snape stood up and began to pace the room, very slowly, arms folded. It was as though he needed the height and motion to perfect his intimidatory mode. It certainly worked on Neville - every measured step was like a hammer blow from on high, driving the nails more deeply into his scholastic coffin. True, their height differential was less than it used to be - Snape didn't tower over Neville in quite the way he once had, but his physical presence seemed to have more to do with attitude than actual inches, and Neville shrank in his shadow. Snape's expression as he regarded the cowed boy was one of distaste and something less identifiable - but Neville wasn't aiming for subtlety: 'loathing' described it adequately enough for his purposes.

"So. Potions." Snape could make two innocuous words sound like a death sentence.

"Yes, Sir."

"Your grandmother informs me that you have undertaken some revision this holiday."

"Yes, Sir." Good, keep going with those affirmatives, Nev.

"And yet you appear to be neither maimed nor disfigured. Well, well…" The master let his lips curl into a sneer.

"My Gran has sent you some stuff, Sir. In my bag. Can I …?" Neville was anxious to get this embarrassing present-giving over and done with. Yet, transfixed by apprehension, he was loath to make any sudden movement that might be misinterpreted. He didn't want Snape to draw his wand and hex him - he wouldn't put it past the man. He might be warming up for his revenge on Remus!

"Hurry up then." Impatient. What nauseating confection had the batty old crone sent this time - Lardy Bread? Pontefract cakes?(1) Did she think she could bribe him with buns? But the boy produced three squat Kilner-type jars and slid them onto the desk.

"Sharks' teeth, Hagfish mucus and…"

"Sea Cucumber entrails." Snape had picked up the third jar, turning it and examining the revolting, brown tubes as they oozed in one direction and then the other. "Expelled during a simulated attack? They will contain the authentic adrenal enzyme?"

"Oh yes, Sir." Neville thought it safest to agree. "I caught them myself yesterday. They're all fresh, Sir."

"Indeed." Snape cast Neville a look of acid appraisal. "Well, you can tell your grandmother that her gifts are…" He paused, lifting each jar and studying the contents intently as a prelude to placing it upon his shelf to join the ranks of hideous specimens, grotesquely bobbing and floating. "…her gifts are understood," he said. "And appreciated."

Neville wished Snape wouldn't stare at him like that. He felt he must have some massive, dangling bogey, or a trail of Trevor's toad 'squirt' on his shoulder. He sniffed again, self-consciously. It was an unfortunate reflex, acting on Snape – already tired and short-tempered – as a powerful irritant.

"Stop that infernal sniffing!" he snapped. "Or I shall cauterise your nostrils - permanently. If it weren't for the fact that a sense of smell is advantageous in Potion-making…"

Neville didn't fancy the idea of having his nose 'quarterised' - it sounded painful.

"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled. He thought he heard Snape mutter 'you will be' under his breath, but he couldn't be sure. The master was staring at him again, with a look more of sadness than hostility. It was odd, unsettling.

"Sir?"

It seemed to Neville that Snape jumped internally, though outwardly betraying no sign. He cleared his throat and resumed the pacing.

"So you wish to continue Potions? A doleful prospect for all concerned. I can't say that I am remotely thrilled by it. However, your tedious presence in my class will be tolerated, Longbottom, under certain conditions. Are you listening to me? There is to be no repeat of the farcical disruption with which you sabotaged my lessons last term. Do you understand, boy? No mislaid equipment, no forgotten books, no blunt scalpels, no cracked flasks, no contaminated ingredients, no toads loose in the store-cupboard, no turning over two pages by mistake because your book is inexplicably smeared with syrup, no food brought into the dungeons, no un-blanched Shark Lily and no exploding cauldrons! Got that? Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir." Neville thought it grossly unfair of Snape to blame him for Malfoy's doctoring of his ingredients, but he wasn't going to argue.

"You will pay attention at all times," Snape continued. "You will focus on the Potion – and nothing else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Homework will be submitted on time. I should not need to remind you that it is to be your own work, not copied from the scripts of any well-meaning but misguided associates… I shall, as always, deduct marks for irrelevance and illegibility. Do not expect me to make any concessions in your case. You are – or am I making a rash assumption here – capable of writing legibly?"

"Yes, Sir." Neville felt supremely ill-used here. His handwriting was far better than Ron's or even Harry's.

"Yes, Sir? Then why do I have to put up with unreadable bilge like this?"

Snape had removed a sheet from a grey folder and now thrust it under Neville's dripping nose. With horror he recognised a page from one of last term's antidote assignments – not one of his proudest achievements. Snape had evidently begun correcting it - the first two paragraphs were almost obliterated by his spiky comments – but had then given up and put a thick, red line through the whole thing. He tossed it back onto the desk with a snort.

"You are here to learn, Longbottom. And I - Merlin help me! – am here to teach. So, if you have a question, you will address it to me and not to the redoubtable Miss Granger."

"Yes, Sir."

"Furthermore - and I have obtained your grandmother's authorisation for this - you will present yourself in the dungeons five minutes before the commencement of each potions lesson. I shall administer one drop of Wit Sharpening Potion. This dosage is not sufficient to give you any unfair advantage over your fellow students. It will not imbue you with the mental acuity of a Hipworth or a Tugwood(2). It will however improve your concentration enough for you to survive for the duration of a class without any dangerous lapses of memory or judgement. I trust that is acceptable to you?"

Disagreement was not an option.

"Yes, Sir." Sensing that the interview was coming to an end, Neville risked another productively juicy sniff. "Is that all, Sir?"

"No. …head back, Longbottom."

"Sir?" Where? What?

"I said, 'Tip your head back'. Are you deaf?" Snape enunciated the words cuttingly. Neville stuck his chin out a fraction. The idea of exposing his pale, pinkish throat and softly pulsating jugular to an unchained, prowling Snape struck him as sheer, suicidal folly. The man advanced on him and, index finger extended, pushed Neville's wobbling chin up, hinging his head back until Neville found himself staring at the ceiling. He squinted sideways trying to keep Snape in his peripheral vision, but only succeeded in making himself dizzy so that he lost his balance and staggered. A cold hand clamped tight on the collar at the back of his neck and stopped him falling. At the same time he felt a stinging, scouring sensation in his nostrils. Snape had put something in his nose. Liquid fire! Molten ice! He'd poisoned him! He could feel his brains melting already… It was freezing the inside of his skull. His head was on fire. It was hot. It was cold. It was searing…it was… worse than that time Seamus had tricked him into rubbing 'Deep Heat' on his dick… it was burning… er, actually, it didn't feel so bad after all… Neville inhaled a long, cool, clear breath and stood up to see Snape replacing the stopper on a small, dark bottle.

"W-what was that stuff?" he stuttered. Unsmiling, the master crossed the room to wash his hands at the sink.

"If you thought you were going to plead Potion Rhinitis as an excuse for another term's underachievement, you'd better think again."

"No, Sir. I wasn't. I hadn't even thought..." Neville didn't know whether to thank him or resent his aspersions. But there was no denying the fact that the sniff had gone. "Thank you, Sir. Can I go now, Sir?"

"Yes… No…" Snape was strangely undecided. "Yes. You can go. And don't slam the door!"

Neville was reaching for the handle, already celebrating a lucky escape, when the potions master called him back.

"Longbottom!"

"Sir?" So near yet so far! How cruel could the man get?

Snape addressed the boy with cold, forced civility.

"One more thing. I feel I should inform you, Longbottom, that I do not hold you personally accountable. My feelings on the matter will not influence my assessment of your performance in class."

Another 'Yes, Sir' was already half way out of his mouth, when Neville realised he hadn't the faintest idea what Professor Snape was talking about. He couldn't still be harping on about Draco and that ridiculous Shark Lily? Feelings? What feelings? A number of questions fuzzed in his brain, but he only managed to articulate an incoherent "What have I done?" as he raised an uncomprehending face to the Potions master.

Alarm registered in Snape's jet-black eyes as they met the boy's blank stare. She hasn't told him! Oh, this is laughable! This is absurd. The child doesn't even know. Am I supposed to tell him? When Snape had promised Dumbledore that he would speak to the boy, this wasn't at all what he had had in mind.

"Sit down, Longbottom."

Neville sat about as comfortably as if he had a noose around his neck and was waiting for Snape to kick the chair out from under him. What was the man going to spring on him now - a test? His nose still itched a little; he didn't scratch it. He hung there, unresisting, a punch-bag, waiting for the boxer to take a swing.

Snape, having resumed his position on the other side of the desk, leaned back in his seat contemplating the unsuspecting boy. His silence magnified the tension. Neville felt an awful, nervous impulse to giggle.

Snape's own immediate impulse had been to Floo Dumbledore and pass the buck - the students' emotional welfare was the purlieu of the headmaster, was it not? Yet it was not strictly a school matter. Unwillingly Snape conceded that this responsibility was his alone and that he was uniquely qualified for the task. The knowledge did not help him. Nothing he could do or say would make this any easier - for himself or Neville. Why make it easier though? Life wasn't easy. Should these children be brought up to expect things to be easy? The boy had to hear the plain facts and deal with them. It wasn't up to Snape to sugar coat the pill. Nobody had ever sweetened the truth for him, and he had survived…

The round, puzzled, ingenuous face peered back at him.

"What did I do, Sir?" Neville asked again, resigned to shouldering the blame for another unknown misdemeanour. His passivity incensed Snape. When would he learn to stand up for himself?

"Listen to me, Longbottom - you have done nothing! Do you hear me?"

Whatever people say, you have got to believe that it is not your fault, otherwise… Otherwise you will spend your life regretting something that you were powerless to change, apologising for other people's failures, hiding someone else's shameful secrets…

Neville still didn't understand.

"So what didn't I do then, Sir?" he whispered fearfully.

And Snape found himself in an almost unheard of situation - prevaricating to spare someone's feelings. Possibly his own.

"I hear you spent some time with your Great Uncle this holiday?"

"Yes, Sir." Neville cautiously agreed, waiting for the catch, a ghastly suspicion growing inside him that maybe Uncle Algie had put Snape up to this. That they were in it together. That some excruciating magical challenge was about to be issued…

"And that was because… your grandmother had other pressing concerns which required her immediate attention?" Snape was feeling his way carefully, assessing how much the boy knew.

"I suppose so, Sir." Neville hadn't thought about it that way. He never bothered himself with what his grandmother did when she wasn't at home baking. He was even more uncomfortable now - surely Snape hadn't called him back for a chat?

"And how did you occupy yourself while you were away?" Snape realised instinctively that he had to engage the boy's confidence before he set about shattering it. Establishing any sort of rapport was a tall order given their history so far, but somehow Snape had to persuade the child that - this time -he was not acting out of spite…

"I asked you a question, Longbottom."

Neville swallowed hard, sucked at his panic-parched lips and uttered a tremulous, diminuendo squeak. This called for more than a straight affirmative, yet somehow his powers of speech, grammar and even knowledge of basic terminology had been erased from his memory.

Interlocking his fingers, the knuckles whitening, Snape crushed his irritation like walnuts between clasped hands and prepared to try again. He was not accustomed to talking to his students - at them, perhaps, but not with them. Even when he was with Harry, they rarely entered into any meaningful conversation. The occasional Quidditch comment was about as far as it went. But this pudgy potato was hardly Quidditch material. Snape had little notion of what subjects the average sixteen year old wizard might be open to discuss with an adult. But then, Longbottom was scarcely an average child.

"Have you also been revising Herbology?" Anyone who knew Neville well would have known this was a safe bet. To Snape, who did not, the question seemed nothing short of inspirational, and he congratulated himself, especially when he saw a sudden spark of interest animate the boy's features.

"Not as such, Sir, no, but it's funny you should say that, because I have been giving a deal of thought to your sub-soil…" Neville had doubted that he would ever muster the courage to mention his ideas for Snape's garden, and now the man had presented him with a golden opportunity.

"You'd be better off giving thought to your sub-standard performance in class," the Potions master sniped, not appearing remotely interested in Neville's theories; he probably wasn't even listening. He looked bored already. Perversely that encouraged Neville to continue.

"It was the Bladderwrack as put me in mind of it, Sir."

"Bladderwrack?" Snape echoed incredulously, much as Harry had done earlier. It was that sort of a word. So he was listening!

"Yes, Sir. You see, the HAGRI report said…"

"Hagrid? What's he got to do with it?"

"No, Sir. The Horticultural And Garden Research Institute. Ages ago I'd read about their survey on the beneficial properties of kelp as a soil reconditioning agent, and then when I was thrown off the pier…" He tailed off, observing that Snape was resting his forehead against his hand, and appeared to have his eyes shut. The day was catching up with him.

"Sorry, Sir," he mumbled.

Snape's budding sympathy for the boy had been pruned hard back. There was a reason he had always disliked this child - and this was it: the earnest, inconsequential rambling. It irked him more than the incompetence. But, he needed the boy to trust him.

"No, go on," he sighed, rubbing tired eyes. "But get to the point, will you?"

"You can achieve a similar effect with good, old-fashioned banana skins - you have to bury them, you know - but apparently kelp is far superior because of the interaction of the mineral salts with the carbon," enthused Neville. "Its exceptionally rapid bio-degradation, makes it useful as conditioning agent, but it is also very good as an aerator or even a mulch. The trials had it performing right up there on a par with bio-magically enhanced agricultural vermiculite. That's quite something, isn't it, Sir?"

"What? Oh, indeed." The question startled Snape. He found Longbottom's transformation from Potions' liability to botanical specialist faintly disturbing, but he could see why Sprout would want to nurture this talent. He had the suspicion that what the boy was saying might even be relevant.

"This is all very fascinating, Longbottom, I'm sure. But I fail to see why you should be concerning yourself with my soil."

Neville looked crestfallen; he had thought that was obvious.

"Because Tonks said your herb garden was flattened, Sir. She said they trampled right through it and ruined the plants, and that the wind direction meant that all the ash and soot from the fire got blown all over it. You'll have terrible problems with compaction and lack of aeration; the pH levels in the soil will be horribly out of balance - I don't rightly like to think what the nitrogen:phosphate ratios might be – the topsoil will be heavily contaminated with the carbon; it'll be stripped of mychorrhizal fungi - they assist with nutrient uptake, Sir – and the micro-organisms in the soil will have been poisoned. Gosh, there probably aren't even any worms. Without worms, you see, Sir -"

"That'll do! When I need a lesson in vermiculture, I'll ask!" Snape's patience had its limits, even when he was endeavouring to hold his distaste at arms' length.

Neville cut himself off with an apologetic croak, colouring to the roots of his hair, but still deeply troubled by the worm problem. Snape regarded him thoughtfully. Quig hadn't been unduly concerned about the state of the earth, reflected Snape, but then the fire at the cottage was insignificant compared with the massive bushfires the elf must have witnessed in Australia. For all his lamentable faults, the boy did seem well-informed about plants.

"You should discuss this with my house elf. He manages the garden."

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." Neville grinned awkwardly.

Snape checked the time. "However, I didn't ask you here to talk about mud. Longbottom, I have to inform you…" This was more difficult than he could have imagined. He found himself hedging again, searching for an appropriate introduction.

"Parents may have high, often unreasonable, expectations for their children…"

Oh no, what's Uncle Algie been saying? But again Snape made no reference to the old wizard and his magical challenges. Indeed, it seemed to Neville, that the Potions master was struggling with the subject, treating it with less than his usual precision and objectivity.

"Equally, children may have unrealistic expectations of their parents, which we - er, they – find impossible to fulfil. Their short-comings may be a source of disappointment. Their actions may inadvertently cause us – er, them – harm… And we are the ones left to live with the consequences…"

Snape had picked up his quill from the desk top and was twisting it back and forth, cracking the smooth lie of the feather as he stroked the barbs against the 'grain'. An unconscious gesture; an occupation for his fingers; an outlet ... Catching Neville's wondering eyes upon him, he laid the quill casually aside, stilling the slight tremor in his hands. Neville could read nothing in Snape's tightly controlled features, but he was left with the peculiar impression that he had committed another offence of some sort; that Snape did not want to talk to him at all but was here under coercion, as though he, Neville, had lashed the master to his chair and was holding him at wand-point… Neville knew that he had, once again, misunderstood. Live with what consequences? All he could think was that the guy was planning some ghastly scheme to punish Remus and that, somehow, Harry was going to be left to pick up the pieces.

"Shouldn't you be telling this to Harry, Sir?" he suggested innocently.

"Harry? This has nothing to do with Harry, you foolish boy!"

Or did it? Gradually Snape was coming to the realisation that everything he did now concerned Harry in one way or another and affected his life, just as his own parents had left their indelible imprint on his existence.

"My relationship with Harry is another matter entirely - and one which I am hardly likely to discuss with you!" he snarled.

"No, Sir."

Snape hadn't meant to vent his irritation, but it was forcing its way through his assumed detachment just as surely as the weeds in the driveway at the Manor. There was something in the guilelessness of this child that both disarmed and infuriated him. But it wouldn't help either of them if he lost his temper now. Whatever sort of a hellish day he might have had (and, by his standards it had been relatively tame: no death threats, no hooded assassins - so why did he feel so drained and ragged?), he had to divorce himself from it and focus on the boy.

He eyed Neville gravely.

"Longbottom, are you aware that your mother has been moved to a new ward at St Mungo's? That it was necessary to assign her to a more 'secure' unit? That you were sent to visit your Great Uncle because your grandmotherhad beensummonedto Londonto authorise the relocation?"

Neville had stiffened at the mention of his mother. Snape knew that, as an outsider, he was breaking a rigid family taboo in discussing her openly. The Longbottoms' condition was common knowledge amongst Snape's generation or anyone who had lived through the rise and first overthrow of the Dark Lord, but Neville had kept it a jealously guarded secret from his fellow students.

"Why?" the boy whispered.

Why indeed? Subconsciously Snape's hand rose to his neck, massaging gently where the bruises had been. Where the thin, emaciated hands of that deceptively frail woman had seized him by the throat, squeezing with an unnatural, manic strength in that frenzied attack on his life.

"Die, Death Eater!" Her dry, soulless cackle still hissed in his ears. Had she followed her son out of the short-staffed wards and watched where he went? Watched him as he entered Snape's room in the hospital? What Healer would take any notice of mumbling, shuffling, little, harmless Alice? She was part of the furniture. She could slip into a ward and become instantly invisible, sitting docilely in a corner, sorting her scraps of pretty paper. Had she come back later and, in a flash of distorted lucidity, recognised Snape for the Death Eater he had once been? To her twisted logic, it did not matter that Snape himself had not been responsible for her torture. Had all her years of hatred and madness been channelled into that one, vicious act of revenge? Snape didn't know. All he knew was that, as her nails, sharpened to jagged talons, raked his flesh he had found himself staring into the past… into the grey, twisted features and insanely vacant eyes of his own... memories.

Neville was gaping at him in horror. He had gone very pale and looked as though he might be sick.

"No. No, she wouldn't, Sir. Not her. She couldn't. It's a mistake, Sir."

"No mistake, Longbottom. I'm sorry." Sorry? This boy's mother had tried to kill him and here he was saying he was sorry? Neville was still staring at him in shocked disbelief, which, as the full implications dawned on him, morphed into abject terror. He'd be even more terrified if he realised how nearly she had succeeded in her assassination.

"Longbottom…" The boy cringed as Snape leaned towards him. "For Merlin's sake! I'm not going to hurt you. For once in your miserable, mediocre life will you stop goggling at me like that brainless toad of yours and listen? Haven't you heard what I've been saying? No one blames you for this, and you are not to blame yourself. Do you understand?"

Neville blinked dumbly. Snape's words were flailing dangerously and unintelligibly around his brain like a drunken giant. He cowered away from them.

"Sit up straight! Anyone would think I was going to hit you!" exclaimed Snape in exasperation.

That was precisely what Neville did think. Hit him, or Hex him. Or chop him into pieces and boil him up in his largest cauldron, render his bones down to glue…

At that instant Snape disliked himself - he disliked the sudden rush of antagonism he felt towards the helpless student. It swept into him like a Spring tide, filling the dry crater that had opened in his chest, a cavern whose dark vaults echoed with understanding. A bitter wave of fellow-feeling rolled through him, until he choked on empathy. He fiercely resisted the sickening impulse to identify with Neville Longbottom.

Snape knew exactly how the boy was feeling - the sense of betrayal, isolation, the additional weight of one more shame - not that that would have been any consolation to Neville right now. They sat eyeing each other with mutual mistrust, while the chance of healing confidences drifted away, out of reach.

Humanity demanded that Snape offer some kind of comfort or reassurance to the stricken boy, but it proved too great a demand on his emotional spectrum: the kind words were not there; he was not wired for tenderness; the moment slipped past.

"I do not intend to press charges," he said stiffly. "Certain staff at St Mungo's, your grandmother, Professor Dumbledore and myself are the only ones aware of the true circumstances. It will be wholly up to you whether or not you divulge this to anyone."

"They think it was Remus," Neville murmured, his voice flat and lifeless.

"They what?"

"Harry and Hermione. They think it was Professor Lupin who…" Neville's gaze travelled reluctantly to Snape's throat.

"Is that so?" The smirk was unintentional. But the fact that they could have seriously doubted the werewolf was curiously gratifying.

"So they'll be pleased when I tell them…"

"Are you going to tell them? Is that advisable?" Experience warned him strongly against it.

Neville gave him a brave and watery smile.

"Oh, they know she's bonkers, Sir. I couldn't let them go on thinking badly about Rem– Professor Lupin - they've been that worried about him."

Worried?

"As you wish." Snape's mouth tightened. He'd been flattering himself with the fancy that Harry might leap to his defence - but no, he'd have to go on fighting his own battles alone, as always. Safer that way. And as for anything else - these kids would stand by their friend, not make his life even more of a misery. Longbottom wouldn't have to endure the jaunts and tears… no, he corrected, the taunts and jeers… Snape needed to keep reminding himself how very different Harry was from the other Potter - James.

"Neville?" He spoke more gently.

"I'm alright, Sir." Neville took a deep breath, drawing on such reserves of quiet fortitude that for a moment Snape envied him. "She's been crazy all my life, Sir. What's a little more crazy?"

He sniffed and stood up shakily.

"Thank you, Sir."

Thank you? You're thanking me, for digging the gulf of disillusion and loneliness just that bit deeper? Save your thanks. Snape rose to see him out.

"Before you go - your mother dropped this in my room. You may wish to return it." Snape reached into his cloak and drew out a mother-of-pearl button. Tears welled in Neville's eyes as his fist closed round the small, white object. It felt warm in his hand; coming from Snape's pocket, he had expected it to be cold.

X X X

Harry and Hermione were pacing the corridor, waiting for him. They hurried forwards.

"Crikey, Nev, you've been in there ages. I'm frozen. Let's get out of here," urged Harry.

Hermione noticed the tear tracks on Neville's cheeks. She took his arm in a sisterly way.

"Don't let Snape get to you, Neville. He's an utter bastard. Ignore him. What did he say?"

Neville tried to recall any part of the foregoing conversation that he could repeat without embarrassing himself.

"He said he was going to dissect my nose into quarters… And he said you were 'doubtable'…"

"Huh! We'll see about that!" she bristled.

"…and…"

"And…?"

"And it wasn't Remus…"

XXX

END OF STORY.

I hope you enjoyed it. Hope the ending came as a surprise to some of you. I apologise that some of the earlier chapters had to be misleading - it was actually quite difficult, especially in the Snape:Dumbledore chapters, making it sound as though they were talking about Harry rather than Neville and Remus rather than Alice or Neville. (Go on - read them again, if you don't believe me!)

If you review - and I really hope you do - please don't give away the ending by revealing the identity of the attacker! (Well, I sometimes read the reviews first to assess whether a story is worth looking at…). Thanks guys!

1 Pontefract Cakes - coin-shaped sweets made of very strong liquorice

2 Grover Hipworth (b.1742) – inventor of Pepperup Potion; Sacharissa Tugwood (b.1874) – inventor of Beautifying Potion.

No plans for a sequel. May try to load just one more before the HBP frenzy hits us all : it's a Marauders story this time...