Chapter 51

With Neville's Help

November 1, 1997

The young wizard jumped down onto the wooden floor and looked back to see the portrait of the blonde girl closing behind him. The room was dark, and he was able to avoid the rickety chairs thanks to the light from the lamppost on the silent street shining through the windows.

He opened the door, careful not to make a sound. The long hallway was empty and completely dark, except for a weak beam of light escaping through the crack of a door at the end. Straining his ears, he could hear the soft tinkling of water coming out of a faucet.

The young man narrowed his blue eyes, trying to adjust them to the darkness. He sighed deeply, the cold autumn air seeping into the old inn, bringing with it that melancholy smell of rotting leaves that helped ventilate the smell of stale beer and smoke. But there was something else. He could smell a subtle, bitter scent that made his nose itch. He looked towards the stairs and quickly followed the smell of fermented aconite. It was clear that it was coming from the attic.

He climbed the narrow stairs and stopped at a small, ajar door. Pushing it open, he was hit by the full force of the smell: a potent mix of herbs, dampness, and the characteristic acrid scent that made him sneeze immediately. His eyes searched for a window, but there was only a tiny window high up, through which not enough fresh air was coming in. Moving his wand in a sweeping motion, he dispelled the dangerous fumes that had built up.

Laurel's room was cluttered with books, jars of ingredients, and scrolls spread out on a large wooden table. The walls were covered with newspaper clippings and pamphlets, and an old bed sat in one corner.

The young man approached the table, looking curiously at the laboratory equipment and the various flasks of Lupinaria potion flashing in the shadows of the room. He began to look through the notes, brushing his fingers over the rough parchment. Laurel's handwriting was hurried and chaotic, full of diagrams and annotations. He picked up a particularly dense-looking sheaf and leafed through the pages, his eyes examining the various theses for the application of the potion and the complex modifications she had been making.

As he read on, he grew more and more proud of Laurel. She was clearly brilliant, her ideas laced with Muggle knowledge, and she spared no expense in making experimental potions. One scroll caught his eye: a long list of supplies and money sent to various members of the Order. It was clear that she had been helping the cause in more ways than he had realised.

Lost in the sea of ink and paper, the blond boy didn't hear the soft footsteps approaching. He turned around just in time to see Laurel standing in the doorway, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Neville? What are you doing here?"— she asked with a hint of concern in her voice.

"I'm… I'm sorry," —he stammered, feeling a sharp surge of heat on his cheeks.

The woman in front of him was wearing a light, almost transparent cotton nightgown that clung to her damp skin, the delicate fabric revealing the curves beneath. Her short hair clung to her face in dark strands and shimmered in the dim candlelight.

Laurel frowned, feeling herself being stared at, and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the cool air against the damp fabric of her nightgown. She hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and turning her back to the young man, she quickly put on her robe, still feeling Neville's intense gaze on her.

"Neville, it's early morning," —the woman said, finally turning to him. — "I thought we agreed that you were to keep a low profile. Has something happened?"

The boy looked away and focused on a spot on the cluttered table.

"I was looking for you," —he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. — "I'm sorry I came into your room without permission. I just… wanted you to know that Snape knows exactly who was involved in the riot. He's already imposed punishments…"

"Is everyone okay? Ginny, Luna… has he tortured them?"

Neville frowned and shook his head.

"He sent us to Hagrid. We were supposed to clean up the yard and get rid of the skrewts completely. I thought it would be much worse."

Laurel sighed in relief. Severus had kept his promise to her.

"I'm surprised the Carrows didn't protest." —she commented.

"I get the impression they still don't know who's behind the ruckus. Snape doesn't trust them, and who would? They have the intelligence of a troll."

The woman smiled slightly and walked over him, noticing that his blond hair looked like it had been shaved recently.

"Following the trend, Neville?" — the woman joked and as she sat down at the table a sudden fit of cough shook her.

The young wizard did not answer her. Instead, he stared at the lab for a long moment, then, his eyes fixed on the woman's sallow face.

"You are being careless, Laurel"—he said, his voice suddenly turning severe. — "You certainly know the amount of toxic fumes this potion emits. You have no magic to get rid of them, nor the appropriate equipment to work with. You are sacrificing your health. Your life!"

Laurel's mouth hung opened; her eyebrows raised in shock at the harsh speech of Neville. For a moment, she stood frozen, her hands suspended over the scrolls. Her eyes darted around the lab, and for the first time, she noticed the clarity of the air, the absence of the usual oppressive fog of fumes that hung in the room. Her gaze returned to Neville, her expression softening as she realised what he had done.

"I'm aware of my shortcomings and I thank you for your vanishing spell. I usually ask Aberforth to do it for me" —she said with a hint of irritation. — "regarding the instruments there's not much I can do. Got to be thankful with what I have."

"And you are doing great with what you have. But it can be greater". —Neville answered. Then pointing at one of the burettes he asked: —May I?"

Laurel's eyes shined with curiosity as she studied Neville. His words had stung, yes, but they also held a certain undeniable truth. They gnawed at her, making her feel strangely exposed, as if Neville had seen through her defenses, as if he knew her every ability. They oddly reminded her of a certain Potion Master.

"I never knew you were fond of potion making. But, sure, go ahead".

Neville let out a sigh before stepping forward, his plump fingers moved with precision, adjusting the burette's valve, fine-tuning the flow of liquid into the flask below.

"I've had some practice," — he said, a hint of humbleness in his tone. — "Slughorn is not a bad professor."

He leaned forward, grabbing a beaker with moonstone distillate and used a pipette to transfer the pearly fluid into the burette with graceful ease.

"The key is in the details," —he murmured, glancing at Laurel. — "Even with older equipment, you can achieve precision if you're mindful."

Laurel watched him closely, her curiosity piqued. There was something in the way he handled the instruments, a quiet confidence that belied his youth. It was a far cry from the awkward, unsure boy she had first met.

Neville stared at the flask below the burette, waiting for the liquid inside to change slowly from a lumpy maroon to a watery white. He closed the valve with a flick of his fingers and moved the flask to one of the burners.

Laurel found herself leaning in, drawn to the meticulous care he took with every movement. It was almost like watching a seasoned master at work, and she felt a pang of admiration for him that she hadn't expected. It was true—he did remind her of someone. The thought made her chest tighten, a mix of nostalgia and something else she couldn't quite place.

"You know," — she began, her voice softer now, — "the way you work… it reminds me of Snape."

Neville's hands paused for a brief moment, and he glanced at her with an unreadable expression.

"I suppose he taught me more than I realized," —he said quietly.

They both stared at the flask as the potion began to bubble steadily, the milky liquid turning into a vibrant silver, gaining consistency. Laurel's eyes widened slightly at the transformation, a small spark of excitement kindling within her.

"I'll admit, Neville, you've got a good eye for this. Better than I gave you credit for."

Neville offered a modest shrug, a faint smile crossing his round face:

"I'm more than happy to offer help if you want it".

November 12, 1997

They worked all night. Laurel let a long sigh and reclined on her chair, looking at Neville. The bubbling sound of brews and the hissing of the potions filled the room and the air, now clear and breathable, allowed them to work without the hazardous weight of fumes, and for the first time in ages, she felt like she could think clearly.

Laurel couldn't help but be mesmerized by the boy as he worked with a quiet efficiency that bordered on mastery. He seemed to have a natural instinct for the space, knowing exactly where to place each piece of equipment, how to adjust the burners just so, and when to add the next ingredient to their potions. It was like watching a seasoned Potion Master at work, and the realization left her both impressed and unsettled.

"One mustn't stare at people, Laurel". —Neville whispered suddenly, allowing a smirk to brighten his face.

"Oh… I wasn't..." —the Akardos muttered, her cheeks turning red. — "It is getting late. Tomorrow is school day".

"You're right"— he answered, giving a sip of his flask. — "I'm out of coffee and you need to rest".

Neville stood up slowly, stretching his body, when something caught his attention. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the envelopes. The letters were half-buried under a thick tome on the far side of the workbench, almost as if they had been deliberately concealed.

He hesitated for a moment, unsure if he should bring them up, but the sight of that bundle of letters tormented him, pulling his thoughts away from the work they had just completed. He knew very well who had written them.

Laurel noticed his gaze shift and followed it to the stack of envelopes. Her expression faltered for just a split second, a flicker of something—chagrin, perhaps—crossing her face before she quickly masked it with a nonchalant smile.

"Lupin's" —she said simply.

Neville felt a knot tighten in his chest. He knew he shouldn't jump to conclusions, that these were likely nothing more than work-related letters, but the way she had tucked them away, hidden from plain sight, made his mind race with unwelcome thoughts. His imagination conjured images of secret conversations, of shared confidences that should have been his alone.

"Right" — Neville said, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. — "Is he… does he write you often?"

Laurel raised an eyebrow and stared at Neville.

"How else can I know if my work is giving results?"

"Right". —he repeated mechanically. — "I… I must go".

November 26, 1997

The door opened with a slight creak and Neville eyes widened.

Laurel was lying unconscious on the floor, her skin was extremely pale, her breathing shallow. Several vials of blood, more than any person should have drawn at once, were scattered around her.

"Laurel!" —he cried, dropping to his knees beside her.

He shook her gently, but there was no response. Without wasting another second, he bolted out of the room and down the stairs, looking desperately for the innkeeper. He couldn't care less about the possibility of being watched by the patrons.

Thankfully the lounge was completely empty, the only presence being of the old innkeeper behind the bar. Aberforth gruff demeanor vanished instantly when he saw the fear in Neville's eyes.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing in here?"

"Aberforth! Aberforth, help! Come upstairs! She's fainted!"

"Merlin's beard, why can't I have a single peaceful night? Bring those, boy!" — Aberforth blurted, pointing at a few bottles of butterbeer.

He rushed up the stairs with Neville on his heels, bottles clinking in his hand, and together they carried Laurel to her bed, laying her down with care.

Aberforth muttered something under his breath as he grabbed a blanket and draped it over her. He then reached for a bottle of butterbeer heating it up slightly with his wand and he tilted it gently to her lips, encouraging her to sip as she slowly regained consciousness.

Laurel's eyelids fluttered, and she groaned weakly as she tried to sit up, but Aberforth placed a firm hand on her shoulder, keeping her down.

"Easy now" —he said in a low, calming voice. — "You've taken too much out of yourself, lass. You're lucky Neville found you when he did."

She blinked, her gaze unfocused as she looked around the room, eventually landing on Neville, who stood at the foot of her bed, his face etched with worry.

"Neville…"

"Don't speak" —the young wizard said softly. — "Just rest. You scared me, Laurel."

Aberforth let an annoyed sigh out, his expression stern as he turned to Neville.

"She's been pushing herself too hard, and this is what it leads to" — he said, his voice reprimanding them both. — "Now, you need to leave, boy."

"What? No, I'm not leaving her like this," —Neville protested, taking a step closer to the bed. — "She needs someone to stay with her, to make sure she's alright."

"And who am I? A bloody goblin?" —Aberforth shook his head, softening his speech — "She'll be fine. She needs rest and quiet, not more stress. And you being here, worrying over her, will do more harm than good. Now, out."

Neville opened his mouth to argue, but the look on Aberforth's face told him it was futile. The innkeeper was resolute, and he wasn't about to back down. Reluctantly, Neville glanced back at Laurel, who was drifting back into a fitful sleep, her breathing still shallow but steady.

December 10, 1997

The crisp, sharp wind forced the two figures to draw their coats even closer around them. Their breath left a visible puff of mist that quickly dissipated under the silvery light of the winter sun.

The small shelter was built of rough stone and wood, the roof covered with straw, patched in places by years of constant seasonal changes. It was right next to the inn, protected from the outside world by a high, grey wooden fence.

"So, how's life at Hogwarts now?" —Laurel said, taking the bucket of feed the boy was handing her.

Silence. Only the soft bleating of the goats could be heard in the calm of the morning.

Laurel glanced at him, noticing his brow furrow slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line. She had been curious about Hogwarts, what it was like for him now, but every time she tried to bring it up, he had brushed it off, his answers curt and evasive.

"Neville,"— she insisted. — "I know the Carrows are evil, but Snape… has he abused his power? What do the other professors say about him?"

Neville stiffened at the question, his hand stopping mid-movement as he tossed hay into the goats' trough. He didn't look at her, instead focusing all his attention on the pale green of the hay in his hand.

"None of the teachers talk to him," — he finally said, his voice tight, as if the words were being forced out of him. — "He hardly ever leaves his office."

Laurel nodded slightly, sensing there was something else he wasn't saying, but she didn't press him. Instead, she steered the conversation to another topic:

"Do you miss your grandmother, Neville? Would you rather be away from Hogwarts?"

The young man reached into his coat pocket for his flask of tea, avoiding eye contact at all costs. He had a long drink, hesitating before answering her.

"Sometimes". —he admitted cautiously. — "But this is where I need to be. And you? Do you miss home?"

Laurel sighed, leaning against the stable door as she thought about his question.

"Very much. But I don't think I can go back to living as a muggle. Not after everything I've been through. How could I go back to my normal life knowing all this exists? Besides…" —Her voice trailed off and she looked up at the sky, her eyes brightening with tears. — I've bonded with wonderful people. I cannot leave you all behind".

The wind picked up more forcefully, ruffling her hair, and the young man finally turned his gaze to Laurel. He moved closer to her, as if his presence could offer some comfort.

"It's overwhelming. Being trapped here, always on alert, always waiting for something bad to happen," —she continued, her voice breaking. — "I wish we didn't have to be so afraid all the time. The Death Eaters, the raids on the inn… and worst of all, the full moon nights."

At the mention of the full moon, Neville's face hardened.

"Greyback" —he said, the name falling from his lips like a curse. —"If he dares come near this place..."

"It's not just him"— Laurel interrupted. — "It's the feeling that we're being hunted, that we're never really safe. I try to be strong, but sometimes it's too much."

Laurel shivered and pulled her coat tighter around her. Neville reached out and placed his hand on her arm.

"You don't have to be strong all the time," —he said softly. — "Showing a little weakness from time to time isn't the end of the world. And if Greyback or any of those Death Eaters show up, I swear I will protect you to the death."

Laurel's breath hitched as Neville's words sank in, a wave of memories washing over her.

"Showing a little weakness from time to time is not the end of the world."

It had been a long time since she had heard that same advice from her own lips. She had already addressed those words to someone she cared deeply about.

For a moment, she was silent, lost in the memories that surfaced. Lost in those black tunnels, in his smell of medicinal herbs and cologne. But those memories were now distant dreams, blurred by the harsh reality of war, by the brutal wickedness of Severus' actions.

"You remind me of someone I thought I knew," —she murmured. — "Someone who would have said the exact same thing."

Neville's eyes brightened. The wind returned, bringing with it a few frosty flakes, and the goats bleated loudly, drowning the young man´s voice:

"I know".

December 24, 1997

A thick layer of frost had formed on the windowpane, but inside the attic, the light from magical dancing flames bounced off the walls, sheltering them from the winter cold.

Laurel and Neville sat together on the floor, surrounded by the remains of their small celebration. Empty bottles of Butterbeer and crumpled wrappers of Chocolate Frogs were scattered across the floor.

Laurel's voice filled the room as she told unimportant anecdotes, her usual cautious attitude had been softened by the Christmas celebrations, but above all by that letter that, despite being the shortest she had ever received, had incalculable value.

It worked.

We will be forever thankful.

-Tonks

Laurel reread the piece of parchment once more, her laughter echoing through the room, light and genuine. She sank back onto the floor, hugging the letter she had received that morning, feeling a strange sense of calm.

"I can't wait to learn the details" —she said, turning her eyes to Neville. — "I want to know everything. I wonder what Moony felt when he looked directly at the full moon without transforming. Do you think he stopped being afraid of it? Maybe one day he'll start to appreciate its beauty like I do…"

Neville, who had been quietly sipping his Butterbeer, couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm.

"Those kinds of questions don't help scientific research at all. Signs and symptoms, objective information. Remember that, Laurel," he grumbled, though there was a teasing note in his voice. "And no, I don't think Lupin is the type to easily overcome his fears."

"Wasn't he your teacher in third year? I thought you liked Remus." —she said curiously, an eyebrow raised.

Neville nodded, setting his bottle aside.

"He was a good teacher. Fair, I guess. Patient… But fear isn't something that just goes away, especially not with what he's been through. You cared for him, you found his cure; he is lucky to have you".

Laurel tilted her head slightly, considering his words.

"Him and all werewolves, Neville. I want to make sure that each and every single person infected have a chance." —she said firmly. — "That was Dumbledore's original plan, anyway".

"You're doing something incredible, Laurel. I don't know if I could be that strong, to keep going like you do."

Laurel smiled faintly, her eyes drifting back to the letter from Tonks.

"It's not about strength. It's about responsibility. If I can do something to help, to make even a small difference, then I must try".

The wizard felt his chest swell, a warm sensation that tickled him and made him smile with pride and adoration. He couldn't help it. He had to know.

"Laurel… do you ever think about… about him? About Snape?"

Laurel's smile faltered slightly, but she didn't shy away from the question. Instead, she laughed softly, though there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

"If I had any dignity left, I would lie to you and say that I'm over him. But the truth is… I still have strong feelings for Severus. Despite everything, a part of me can't let him go."

She noticed the concern on Neville's face, and a surge of embarrassment tinted her cheeks red. But she continued, despite the pain growing in her chest.

"Yes, he is a murderer. He has hurt me and has hurt others. He's wronged me beyond forgiveness. Whatever I feel, it doesn't change the atrocities he has committed. And I have to live with that pain. I must live with the knowledge that I was stupid enough to give him my heart, to have it shattered by that bastard and still, somehow, I keep loving him".

She could not hold her tears any longer. Burying her head between her knees, a sorrowful, bitter sobbing stung her throat.

Neville watched helplessly as Laurel crumbled, her body shaking. The warm sensation that had swelled in his chest just moments ago was now replaced by deep ache, guilt, shame.

"Forgive me, Laurel" —he wrapped his arms around her. — "I never meant to hurt you".

Laurel didn't respond right away, her sobs muffled against her knees, but she didn't pull away from Neville's embrace either. He held her tightly, wishing he could take away her pain, even just a little. The guilt gnawed at him. He was disgraceful.

After what felt like an eternity, Laurel's sobs began to quiet, and she took a shaky breath, still leaning into his comforting hold. She didn't speak, but her grip on his arm tightened slightly, a silent acknowledgment that she didn't blame him, that she knew he hadn't meant to hurt her.

Laurel finally lifted her head, her tear-streaked face looked at Neville with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry… that was… uncalled for". —she said, while wiping her cheeks. — "But thank you, I needed to let it out".

The young wizard hesitated, unsure of what to say next. But before he could find the words, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped gift.

"I know we agreed that presents were not necessary, but I got you something," —he said, his voice soft, almost hesitant. — "Happy Christmas, Laurie".

Laurel accepted the gift with a surprised smile.

"Oh, Neville, you shouldn't!" — she whispered, unwrapping it with trembling hands.

A beautiful cut glass vial containing a liquid redder than carmine rested inside a velvety box.

Laurel's eyes widened, immediately knowing what it was. She had seen it that first day at Malfoy Manor.

Her fingers trembled uncontrollably, but she still managed to hold the precious ingredient in her hand. She could clearly hear Severus' deep, silky voice in her head:

"It is Tarsus subterranean dragon´s blood. It is exceedingly rare and unbelievably valuable".

She felt she was about to faint.

"Where…?

Laurel's voice caught in her throat, the question dying on her lips as Neville suddenly leaned in, closing the space between them. His lips met hers, his hands tangled in her short hair, pulling her towards him, deepening the kiss. His tongue tasted her lips with tortured longing and for a brief moment, the wizard thought he had reached heaven.

But then she pulled back, her face contorted by anger.

"What do you think you're doing?" —she snapped, shoving him away and scrambling to her feet. — "Get out!"

"Laurel…" —Neville started, mumbling apologies as he backed toward the door.

"Out I say!" —she was so angry she flung the box toward him, shattering the vial.

The precious liquid pooled on the floor, glistening like spilled rubies.

"Laurel, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Neville stammered, his voice pleading, but the fury in Laurel's eyes silenced him.

Her chest heaved with anger, her hands trembling at her sides as she glared at him.

"How dare you? You have no right!"

Neville took another step back, the weight of his mistake sinking in. He had crossed a line, and the consequences were staring him in the face, raw and unforgiving.

"I'll go,"— he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turned and fled from the room, the sound of the door slamming behind felt like a slap in Laurel's face.

The attic felt colder now, darker, the warmth from the magical fires vanished as soon as Neville left the room. She stood there, breathing heavily, her eyes locked on the broken vial and the crimson liquid staining the floor. Then she noticed the small note tucked inside the box, something she hadn't seen before.

She picked up the note and unfolded it, her heart skipping a beat as she recognized the handwriting— small, cramped, and unmistakably familiar.

It was Severus's handwriting.

For the most talented potioneer I´ve known.

Happy Christmas, Laurie

October 31, 1997

Filch had made it clear that the punishment was light compared to the disaster of last week. Neville winced at the memory of the chaos, the spells flying, the shouts, the panic. They had meant well, but things had spiraled out of control. And now, here he was, paying the price.

The door creaked open, and Filch re-entered his office, this time a bright silver shaver in hand. Neville's heart sank further. The caretaker's eyes gleamed with a twisted satisfaction.

"You are a Gryffindor, Longbottom. Act the part."

Neville clenched his fists, trying to muster some semblance of courage. Filch approached him and without another word, began to shave the boy's head. The buzzing of the shaver filled the room, a sound that seemed to echo off the walls, amplifying Neville's humiliation. He felt the cold metal against his scalp, the hair falling in clumps around him.

"Steady your head," —Filch said with a raspy voice. — "You may risk one of yer ears".

Neville sat in silence; his eyes glued to the thick file on the desk in front of him. A rumpled, familiar parchment was sticking out of it. The young wizard read it once, twice… He reread it again.

DUMBLEDORE'S ARMY

Hermione Granger

Ron Weasley

Ginny Weasley

Neville Longbottom

Luna Lovegood

Parvati Patil

Lavender Brown

Seamus Finnigan

Colin Creevey

Snape knew who they were. He knew they had broken havoc in the school. Each name on that list belonged to someone he cared about, someone who had stood up against Snape at Hogwarts. His own name, etched alongside his friends, felt like a brand marking him as a target.

The headmaster hadn't formally accused them of conspiracy against Voldemort. But he surely knew they were dissidents. Why hasn´t he taken a harsher action against them? Snape was waiting, plotting, like the snake that he was.

"Why is this happening?" —Neville finally dared to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Filch paused, his expression unreadable in the low light.

"Orders," —Filch replied curtly, resuming his task without further explanation.

December 25, 1997

"Laurel"

Severus continued to whisper, tossing and turning in bed. That sweet name took away the bitter taste of the Poly-Juice potion he had been taking for weeks.

He closed his eyes, but it was in vain.

He still felt her burning lips on his mouth.

He still felt the sharp pain of betrayal and tasted the tears he had drawn from her.

He dreamed of her that night. He dreamed awake, shivering with fever for endless hours of the early morning, listening to the sigh of the wind trapped in the dungeon passages and the implacable telling of time of the pendulum clock.

He would not see her again until the very end.