Perfectly Still
shanna seanachai

[I got me some Horses to ride on to ride on they say that your demons can't go there]

He had strong, deft, careful hands. Well-traveled hands; you could see it in the palms, in the long, deeply engraved lines that began at his wrist and ended at the cushioned base of his fingers. His hands moved slowly in whatever they did - slowly but surely. He never missed his mark anymore. He'd been a blunderer as a child, but as he had matured, he had learned how to be cautious. How to take everything in with a glance, how to analyze, how to understand.

He had changed significantly.

He was proud of that; it was not that he hated his former himself - he pitied it, rather. Pitied that scared little boy he'd once been. And Neville Longbottom didn't want anybody's pity - least of all, his own.

Changing meant that his life had amounted to something. That all his years as an Enforcer had done some good, for himself as much as anyone else. He could smile a little at that - and he smiled now, one hand reaching up to his chest, were his badge was. Had been. He sighed, holding his hand there for a second, flat on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his body, his breath going in and out, in and out. It made him feel empty, and useless, and lost.

Perhaps that was why he had accepted Dumbledore's offer. He did not want to feel so aimless, and so alone, in these coming months. It was a crutch, he supposed, something to keep himself from facing the harsh reality of it all - in the Academy that was frowned upon. But what did that matter? He was not an Enforcer any longer.

The injury that had lost him his position - through no fault of his own, his superiors had assured him - did not rise in his mind. He purposely did not think of it. He did not talk about it. When other people brought it up, he shrugged it off.

Dumbledore hadn't mentioned it at all, and that was another possible reason behind Neville's acceptance.

"Neville, my boy," he had said when they had met. Neville had tried to put on a pleasant exterior. It was strange to be called a boy again, but he doubted he would ever be anything else in Dumbledore's eyes. "How would you feel about coming back to Hogwarts?"

"Hogwarts?" Neville had replied, as though the reality of such a place was foreign to him. As if he and the school were on different planes of existence. They were, in a way. Schools, children, mucky robes, high pitched giggling - none of that was included in the life of an Enforcer. It was a solitary existence. He was used to it. Too used to it. "Come back to Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore had smiled, that mysterious smile, and his eyes had glimmered in their usual way. "Yes. We never did find a stable Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher..."

Neville had started to fidget, and stopped himself. It was easy to slip back to his old ways while entrenched in all of these memories. School books. Upturned ink bottles. Bursting school packs. Trevor, slimy and friendly, squirming in his hands. "I don't have any kind of teaching experience, Professor Dumbledore."

Dumbledore waved that away. "You'd be amazed at what you can do when you put your mind to it. And I think your career as an Enforcer sufficiently qualifies you for the subject." His "career" - it bristled him, the way the headmaster spoke of it, in the present tense, like nothing had happened. . . He had told himself he was fine with this, with his declassification. Numerous times. But he wasn't okay with it. He was resentful.

They had every good reason in the world, he goaded himself. You can't carry on, not in your condition.

"It might serve to...take my mind off things."

Dumbledore had not said anything, merely stared at him, quiet and sympathetic. He would not mention it. Neville wanted to reach out and touch his hand; show his gratefulness. For not drawing his attention to it, for not making him feel a freak. But had he expected any different? Dumbledore always knew what to say. He'd forgotten that. He'd forgotten so many things...

And that realization had finally decided him. Well, why not? He'd begun here, at Hogwarts. He'd been bound to end up here again. Before the end.

[so I got me some Horses to ride on to ride on as long as your army keeps perfectly still]

He came back to the school in the middle of August.

It looked the same; some things never changed, he supposed. Some people found comfort in that, but it only made him feel like he stuck out. He felt strange and out of place here. It was different, in a way - it seemed too small, too drab in comparison to his memories. He stood there, in the hallway, right in front of the large, carved doors, and breathed in. Then it rushed at him; the ambiance of Hogwarts, that ancient feel. No, it hadn't changed. He had. He'd gotten taller and older and smarter, and for a moment, he hadn't recognized the place. Now he did.

McGonagall showed him his office; it was the same office all the preceding Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers had used. It was bare and lonely, now, though, without the traces of the odd and varying personalities that had once inhabited it. It was a bit shocking to think that in a few weeks he would be one of those personalities, right up there with Lockhart, with Quirrell...a part of him would have shuddered, years ago, at the mention of that name. But Quirrell didn't scare him any longer.

And neither, he realized in a few moments, did Snape.

This realization was brought about by the aforementioned teacher's arrival in his office a moment later.

Severus Snape was older and far more tired looking now. He did not look at all as frightening as Neville remembered. Was this really the man who had kept him up at night with trepidation over the next day's lesson?

"So, it is you," Snape said to him.

Neville, who was carrying a bag in one hand and a box against his hip, rested the box on the desk and let the bag fall to the floor. "Who else were you expecting?"

Snape ignored him. "They said it was you. But I didn't believe them."

Neville sighed and turned his attention to the contents of the box. "And why was that?" he asked, lifting something out.

"Because I couldn't possibly believe that Dumbledore would hire such an imbecile. Granted, he's made some less intelligent choices, but he must really be scraping bottom if it went to ... Neville Longbottom." There was a certain twist and distaste to the way he said the name. His eyes seemed flinty. Those eyes said, I dare you. I dare you to argue with me. I'll pulverize you, and I'll make the rest of the year a living hell for you.

Neville shook his head, grinning, and kept his attention on the box. He just wasn't going to fall for it.

Snape stared at him for a few minutes, his expectant expression changing to one of frustration. Finally, he said, "You know, I'm going to do everything I can to prove you are unqualified for this position, Longbottom. I'll be watching you. The first time you make a mistake -" he gave a quick barking laugh and smiled cruelly. "Of course, I won't have to wait too long for that."

Neville smiled at him again and reached in his box; from it he pulled a long, wickedly sharp sword made of a green, translucent metal. Charmed metal; an Indian asthra. He turned to Snape and raised an eyebrow. He handled the sword expertly, carrying it across the room. "Have a nice day, Snape," he said, and put the sword on a rack against the wall.

Snape stared at him for a few moments, his face a mixture of emotions, and then he turned and left.

[and maybe I'll find me a sailor, a tailor]

The morning of September first dawned, not bright and beautiful, but cloudy and muggy. Neville paced his office, glancing occasionally at the clock. The last few weeks had been instructive, but not in an agreeable way. He had never felt so out of place before in his life. He was the youngest teacher on staff, by at least ten years or more. Most of the teachers there had taught him as a child, and still treated him much the same way they would have ten years ago. He had taken to not saying much of anything while around them; their patronizing smiles annoyed him, and if he kept his mouth shut, they usually just ignored him. The exceptions to this rule were Dumbledore, of course, and McGonagall, who had always been a bit fond of him when he was a student...and Snape. The Potions Master had taken it upon himself to haunt him, following Neville around, attempting to embarrass him, asking him probing and inappropriate questions...

Neville ignored him. He had enough things to think about. And a bitter, petty-minded school teacher was not one of them.

He was due in the Great Hall in half an hour; but his mind kept turning away from the upcoming event and running back around to the letter on his desk. It was not an unusual letter. He got one much like it every month. It was from St. Mungo's, giving him a detailed update on his mother's condition. Just his mother; his father was dead, he'd died a few years ago. Neville hadn't really grieved. He did not know the man, and what kind of life had he been living, no mind, cooped up in that place?

But his Ma - well. She was still alive. Although, the last time he'd gone to see her (he didn't that often - god, but he hated that place) she had looked about three times her age; like she was ready to drop dead at any moment.

He stopped pacing and sighed. He hated getting these letters. Full of their charts, their prognosis, their scribbled comments on the bottom of the papers: "The patient seemed to show some enthusiasm when showed a picture of her son..." He picked up the letter, glanced over it once more, folded it up and put it a drawer in his desk. Enough.

[and maybe together we'll make mother well]

Later, he sat at the teacher's table - how strange the Great Hall looked from this perspective, rather than from the Gryffindor table! - and watched the First Years get sorted. Well, his eyes were on them, but he really wasn't paying attention. His mind was analyzing the look in Snape's eyes when the man glanced at him occasionally. It was still on the letter, too, and on the way his mother's hair had turned completely white in the past few years. And he was also thinking about that sword up there in his office; the asthra. He remembered how the hilt had felt cool and alien in his hand. He shuddered a little; he should not have swung it around so childishly, trying to upstage Snape. He knew better than that.

It was stifling in here, and he wasn't hungry at all, and he hated the feel of all those young eyes crawling all over him, trying to guess him out. It was just too familiar here. Maybe he had made a mistake. Maybe he should not have come.

Dumbledore looked up at him then, from down the table, and that vanquished any doubts in Neville's mind. Of course he had done the right thing. He would be a good teacher, and maybe he could help someone...some scared little kid like himself - like he had been, some victim of nerves, loss, and Severus Snape.

He cast his glance across the room again, and wondered how on earth he could help any of them, when he could barely help himself. He'd changed a lot, that's what he always thought to himself; he was entirely another person. Perhaps he had just been reassuring himself; perhaps he was not so different as he would like to believe. Maybe his teachers weren't being facetious but perceptive, recognizing the fact that despite everything, all the pretenses in the world could not hide the fact that he was still a scared little kid, a victim. A victim of circumstances, a victim of mistakes.

He put his hand on his chest, like he had when he'd arrived here, but this time he was not aching for his badge. He remembered the way his heart had jolted in his chest when his hands had gripped that sword, and he closed his eyes, shivering. That asthra - the seed of his own undoing - and he'd been playing with it! He wanted this to be over. He wanted to leave the Great Hall and go back up to the sanctity of his office, to be alone. Alone with it. Alone with the sickness that was eating away at him, this very moment. Because when one is surrounded by despair, the only comforting thing to do is wallow in it.

back