Chapter 9
Neville woke early the next morning. He planned to get breakfast early so as not to run into anyone, and then spend the day in his room or in the library; anywhere he could be alone. He still felt physically ill, as his mind tried, unsuccessfully, to block the memories that were rushing back. And with those memories came the anxiety, pain and humiliation. Why was he so stupid? What made him think Charlie Weasley – the handsome ,strong, funny, just overall cool Charlie Weasley – would ever be interested in him? Neville was pathetic, unattractive, socially inept and that was just scratching the surface. Charlie had every right to be furious. Maybe the biggest part of what made him feel so hollow was that he knew Charlie would never want to speak to him again. For a long time the only thing getting him through school were those letters. That treasured correspondence reminded him he did have someone he could talk to; and now that someone didn’t want anything to do with him.
-
He had managed to slip in and out of the Great Hall without attracting any attention this way. As it was Sunday, there were no lessons going on so at least for today he could avoid his classmates. Lost in thought, he suddenly realised he’d accidentally taken a wrong turn on his way to the library. Cursing, he turned around, only to run into none other than a sneering Malfoy. “Longbottom, are your thighs clenching?” he taunted. Neville hands balled into fists, his jaw clenched. His eyes then fell on the badge on Malfoy’s chest. It was flashing, alternating between the lines of that wretched poem: 'He makes my thighs clench' and 'Only with him will my thirst be quenched' “Want one? You can have it for free.” Malfoy’s smirk flared. He even went as far as to reach to pull his own badge off his chest as if he were about to give it to Neville.
Neville felt physically sick. Malfoy had always teased him and was a generally vile person – but now? Neville couldn’t take it. He could feel his sadness welling, the ache in his chest, the tears welling in his eyes, a feeling that had gotten familiar over the past few days. And when Malfoy laid the badge, face-up on his palm – the badge that was blinking between lines of that wretched poem – as an offering to Neville, he cracked.
The smirk slid off Malfoy’s face – he pushed back, spitting onto the floor. Neville could feel the pain in his fist. It was almost surreal. The badge fell on the floor between them, and in a twisted turn of events Malfoy ended up cracking it underfoot when stumbling backwards under the force of the (weak) hit.
“Longbottom!”
Malfoy was covering the lower part of his face with his palm, hiding a smirk.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor!” Snape sneered, walking quickly toward the pair. Malfoy started to dramatize his pain, stumbling back a little further. Snape descended on them.
“Instead of physical violence against other students,” Snape sneered, looking at the ‘wincing’ Malfoy, “Maybe you should focus on studying to correct your abysmal grades.” Snape tipped his head to the side as if in consideration, “Or will you sell yourself to get the older Weasley boy to fix them for you?”
Neville’s fists shook. He took a step back. Snape smirked. Fifty points? For punching another student? Neville turned his face away to wipe his tears as discreetly as he could, not that he had any pride left at this point.
“Detention,” Snape slurred, “Tomorrow. I need some Mandrake leaves and I’m sure you’ll be perfect at harvesting them.”
-
“Come in,” McGonagall said.
Neville wiped his face again. There was no real point; he had locked himself in the school bathroom and had been crying for the past two hours. His eyes were red and puffy, bloodshot. Everyone knew how much of a mess he was anyway. Not that he’d be here for much longer.
He took a step in. McGonagall looked up from her desk and dropped her quill, moving behind him to close the door.
“Take a seat, Mr Longbottom.”
He did.
“Have a gingernewt.” She offered him the biscuit jar. He took one, throat aching too much to waste words on a rejection. The biscuit did little more than make a mess of his fingers.
McGonagall watched him not eat. She took her seat again.
“What can I do for you, Mr Longbottom?”
He stared down at the biscuit. “I –“ he sniffed. “I’m leaving.”
“And where are you going?”
“I can’t stay here.” The biscuit crumbled onto his knee.
“You’re not one for going home.” Neville considered McGonagall probably knew how often he’d stayed in Hogwarts for the holidays rather than going back to his grandmother. The headache spanned over his brow.
“Neville,” she said. “Your parents would be so proud to see you at the school they loved.”
Neville’s hands shook, lips trembled.
“Give it a chance. Give it more time.” She waited a moment. “Your parents wouldn’t want you to do this. They tried their hardest for you.”
More tears slid off his chin. He batted them away quickly, the skin on his face sore.
“This is a big decision for you to make, Neville. Give it two days. I’ll write a note to Madame Pomfrey and you can stay in the hospital wing for that time.
“But if you really want to leave after that,” McGonagall said calmly, “Then that’s okay too.”
sendosenpai - wow, this was a tough right. quite a few of us over here at sanpeistudios had to band together to get through Neville's tough angst. Fuciking snape.
Sorry it took so long! we have alot of things in production, a lot of exciting projects on the way. Which leads us to the -
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