Chapter Text
Snape is making them wait again. He likes to do this just out of spite, Neville thinks, because he thinks it makes him look powerful or something. It’s just a ploy, though. What could he be doing that’s so important? He doesn’t teach any classes, the Carrows take care of most of the other school work. All Neville actually sees Snape do is show up sometimes at dinner in the Great Hall and make some speech about how “the Dark Lord is a blessing” or whatever. He can’t possibly be spending his days writing those speeches. They make him sound like a religious fanatic, and not one of the happy ones.
Neville looks out the window, to the darkening late autumn sky. Sitting where he is, at the desk in the headmaster’s office he can only see sky, and just barely the tops of the trees in the distance. He wonders often what part of the sky Harry, Ron and Hermione are seeing. He glances at Ginny next to him, sitting with her pale freckled hands in her lap and her back straight, staring resolutely at the door where Snape will enter. He feels sorry for her, but knows if he told her that she’d strangle him. If he feels abandoned he can’t even imagine how she feels.
He startles when Snape finally flings the door open, sits up as straight as he can. In his first years at Hogwarts he’d always shied away when Snape was in the room, tried to be as small as possible, unnoticeable, but now he seems to instinctively want to do the exact opposite. He is afraid but sees it, him, maybe more as a challenge and less as a threat. He’s grateful for that, that his brain has decided this for him. He’d be terrified otherwise, with the way Snape is looking at them.
“Professor,” Ginny says as a greeting and Snape’s expression darkens.
“Headmaster,” he spits, already angry.
Neville swallows. “Headmaster,” he says, hating himself for being so placating, such a softie.
Snape is practically vibrating with suppressed anger. He sits down slowly at his desk, doesn’t even look at Neville, but keeps his black eyes on Ginny, who just stares back.
“Do you have any idea how long it has taken the house elves to clean up your mess? How many teachers had to take hours out of their schedule today to fix your mistake?”
Ginny glares, presses her lips together, but Neville lights up at the word mistake. If Snape is willing to write this off as a mistake, they’ll be fine. They can’t know they did it on purpose.
“I hope you’re aware someone could have gotten hurt?” Snape enunciates coldly and slowly, leaning on the desk.
“Definitely, sir,” Neville says, and Snape looks at him for the first time since he’s entered the room. “We apologize.”
“Oh?” Snape asks, eyes back to Ginny now, who looks like she’s trying to set his hair on fire with a silent charm. “Ms Weasley, do you apologize?”
She’s quiet and Neville nudges her. Please, he thinks. She has to understand that he’s not afraid. Not for himself. He’s worried Snape will leave it to the Carrows, and that they will punish the others. It was their plan, if anyone’s going to be punished it should be them.
“No, sir,” she says and Snape clenches his hands.
“Ginny, come on,” Neville whispers, and he can hear how almost frantic he sounds.
Ginny finally stops glaring at Snape and looks over to Neville, just quickly. “Stop it,” she hisses, and then turns to Snape. “I won’t apologize for something I did on purpose.”
Snape leans back in his chair, looks like he wants to shout at them but for some reason won’t.
“I planned it, sir. I designed the hex and I executed it. No one else knew about it,” Ginny says, slowly, as if she expects herself to change her mind any minute.
He understands what she’s doing. She’s taking the blame. Suddenly Neville is angry. She has no right to do this, this wasn’t what they talked about. Snape looks as sceptical as Neville feels.
“Oh, so Mr Longbottom here just happened to stroll in while you were casting a flooding spell over the entire third floor? That little ragtag group of Gryffindors always following the two of you around just happened to be standing in the hallway at the same time?”
“I never told them the extent of what I was planning,” Ginny says evenly. The hands in her lap are still.
“Do not insult me with this.” Snape is also still, frighteningly so. Then he says, “Leave.”
Ginny moves, stops being a very stubborn statue and leans forward. “What?” she says, not angrily but just pure confusion.
“You’re lying. 50 points from Gryffindor. And I want you to leave.”
Ginny frowns, shakes her head. “But-“
“Leave!” Snape says, standing up.
Ginny starts to her feet, pushing her chair back in the progress. She opens her mouth but says nothing and then looks down at Neville. Snape is still not shouting, and it’s worrying.
“No, just you. Longbottom stays,” Snape says, like he’s trying to be reasonable, like this is normal. Neville’s head is screaming at him. He can do this. He’s not scared. He is scared.
“Why?” Ginny asks, hesitating.
“That does not seem to be any of your concern, Weasley,” Snape says, and Ginny has no choice. To her credit, she looks absolutely distraught when she throws one last glance at him before turning to the door. Neville’s sitting with his back to the door so he can only hear the muted click when it shuts.
They’re alone now, and Snape sits down again. And then just sits, silent. Neville shifts in his seat, looks from Snape’s face to his desk back to his face. He doesn’t have to speak. This is good. If he’s not going to ask any questions Neville won’t say anything.
“50 points from Gryffindor and detention for two months,” Snape says finally, so quietly that Neville doesn’t even hear it at first and stares at him for too long.
He opens his mouth, feels stupid, closes it again. “Thank you,” he says, insanely enough, and then when Snape just sits there again, he says. “So I can, um, leave?”
“Seven o’clock tomorrow,” Snape says, starts picking at the papers on his desk. “Yes, you can leave.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
“Oh, are the consequences of your actions inconvenient for you?”
Neville swallows his response. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”
--
It’s a bad solution. The Carrow siblings won’t stop badgering him about how “lenient” he is with the students, the rest of the faculty seem either angry or scared, Minerva won’t talk to him at all. Letting them off this easily is not a good solution, but it will at least stop them from being harmed, he tells himself. In the short run, at least. His eyes sweep over the empty walls once full of portraits of former headmasters. He wonders if his own portrait will hang there some time, after the war. Maybe. Probably not. He’d taken them down reluctantly, at Dumbledore’s suggestion. His portrait’s suggestion. He keeps it now stuffed in the back of his closet, takes it out only once a week, discussing strategy. It takes him two generous glasses of whiskey to stomach opening the door. Alcohol seems to be a weakness he’s acquired in later years.
He’d chosen the Longbottom boy only because he cannot stomach that little redhead’s constant glaring. Longbottom can be reasoned with. Longbottom is scared of him. He can handle that. It’s somehow easier than the anger. He’s dealt enough with anger.
Maybe she’ll take it as a personal affront, up the stakes, cause more trouble. Severus rubs the bridge of his nose, grabs the bottle of painkilling potion he keeps in his desk drawer, opens it and swallows a mouthful. He sits in the grim half dark of his office and waits for the headache to ebb into background noise.
When Longbottom shows up Saturday night he puts him to use sorting mail. It’s unbelievable how much of Severus’ time is spent reading mail, writing terse replies to parents complaining. They want their children to be safe, he understands, but why can’t they understand there is nothing he can do. He sits at his desk and reads the latest slew of notes from the teachers, reports and suggestions.
Rolanda wants new broomsticks for the teams, she’s written in a short note on the back of what seems to be a package wrapping. Minerva writes informing him of a fight she intercepted between two Gryffindors. It’s really a disciplinary question to be handled by the Carrows, but Minerva’s too clever to let them handle it. He writes a short reply he knows she won’t respond to, telling her to deal with it as she pleases. No one seems willing to come see him in his office. Not even that griping idiot Horace Slughorn seems particularly comfortable when he deems to see him. He wants to be friends, he says, brings Severus bottles of exotic liquor, jokes. Of course he does, always the turncoat, always kissing the ass with the most power. Severus shakes his head, he shouldn’t judge. It’s the smart thing to do.
“Sir,” Longbottom pipes up from the other end of the room. He’d forgotten he was there until he spoke and glances at the clock on his desk. It’s well past nine and the boy hasn’t spoken up until now. Severus wants to slap him. He has that gut reaction more often than he’d like to admit. He strikes it down to how utterly weak the boy seems. It’s a terrible quality.
“What?” The word comes out more forceful than he would have wanted.
“I, um, how long do you want me to stay?” he asks.
“Are you finished?”
He has given him all the mail he has received the entire semester. He knows the boy can’t possibly be done.
“Um, no, sir, but it’s past curfew and-“
“You can go,” Severus interrupts, and the boy nods, mumbles something.
He watches him as he gathers up his things, pushes in the chair. He moves with the sort of languid carelessness only found in teenage boys. That feeling deep in his gut might be envy, or disgust. Teenage boys are ruthless, teenage boys are vicious. Teenage boys are, in their own minds, the rulers of the fucking earth.
“You can leave if you tell me if Ms Weasley was telling the truth,” Severus says slowly, and Longbottom stops, turns to him.
They both know it’s a pointless question. She wasn’t. They both know. This is such an obvious provocation that Severus almost expects him to leave without answering. He doesn’t, of course.
“I-“
“It’s a yes or no question, Longbottom.”
And Longbottom is calm. Instead of anger, instead of fear even, there’s just nothing. This is even more aggravating than the weakness. This is, if anything, a provocation.
“Come here,” he says, sharply, stepping around the desk so that they are standing just a few metres from each other, Severus on the elevated section where his desk stands. He wants to feel like he’s towering over him, but Longbottom is about his height now, so he barely has to look up to speak.
“I’m sorry,” Longbottom says evenly, and Severus’s face forms into an involuntary sneer.
“Are you not going to answer me?” Severus says, feels the weakness in the statement. Why is this bothering him so much?
“I’m sorry, I-“ Longbottom starts, his eyes on the floor.
“Look at me,” Severus says and as the light eyes meet his own he can’t help it. He slips right in, the boy has no defences. It’s like sliding into warm water. He sees himself, tall, dark, intimidating, stalking through a classroom. He sees the Weasley girl lying on the grass, talking animatedly, her hands making intricate shapes. He sees Longbottom helping that strange blonde Ravenclaw girl carry her bags onto the train, they’re on their way to Hogwarts, Longbottom is happy and worried all at the same time, emotions swirling. He sees Longbottom and his grandmother, walking up the steps to St Mungo’s, Longbottom smaller than he is now, twelve maybe, holding his grandmothers hand and –
“Stop it!” Longbottom shouts. He has pushed Severus into his desk, broken eye contact. “What are you doing?” he asks, finally angry, outraged even. Severus’ hip aches, pressed into the edge of the desk. He pushes away from it.
“If you won’t tell me the truth-“ Severus starts and Longbottom steps closer.
“You have no right to do that!” he shouts, fists clenching, breathing heavily.
“Of course I have a right, when my students won’t tell me the truth-“
“You know the truth,” he practically growls. “You know she didn’t do it herself. What is this, are you bored? Are you that small of a man that you have to-“
Severus slaps him, backhands him across his right cheek. Longbottom’s head jerks to the side and he quiets. He rubs his face, as if he can’t imagine where the pain came from. Severus can feel himself deflate. He should apologize. He should. But the silence just stretches on, fills the room, suffocating.
“Do it again,” Longbottom says.
--
His cheek aches. He shouldn’t have said that, but at this point he doesn’t care. He’s so angry. He managed to keep it under check as he sat there, sorting letter after letter, Snape not even looking at him. Then this. Now, when it’s over, he knows it was Legilimency. He has no right to do that.
“Do it again,” he repeats. Snape looks almost scared. He’s making no attempt to move, just looks at Neville with an empty stare.
“Do it again. Do you feel strong hitting me?” Neville spits out. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry before, but there’s something else too. He wants to feel it again, the pain, wants to control it like he did last time. This isn’t like Amycus Carrow driving his wand into his shoulder blades while whispering about his parents, this isn’t sitting scared in a school bench while his sister rants about muggles with a crazy glint in her eye. A choice. He’s in control here, he can take it. “Do it again you fucking coward.”
When Snape hits him again it’s harder. When he touches his tongue to his lip he tastes blood, salty and metal. He gingerly touches his fingers to it and then looks at the red on his fingers. When he looks up Snape is staring at him, eyes dark. He looks… Neville doesn’t even know. He’s never seen anyone look like that before, he’s never been stared at like this. Then he moves, smoothly, like a there is a current through his body, steering him. It’s the best he’s ever looked. It’s frightening, but mostly exciting.
Snape is close now and Neville only has to whisper for him to hear. “Again.”
Instead of hitting, Snape brings his hand up and grabs the back of Neville’s neck, tightly. He can feel his nails digging into the soft skin where his spine connects to his skull. He’s so close that he can smell him. He’s holding his breath.
Then he lets go.
“Leave.”