Portents and Potions

Sitting huddled on the sofa with the duvet wrapped around him, cocooning him, Neville studied his little, black book splayed open upon the coffee table. Thin pages fluttered in a draught, and his eyes were drawn to the shifting figures and diagrams painstakingly drawn over many years. His neat handwriting mocked him, highlighting the futility of his fastidious efforts.

It was typical that after the anger, there was the numbness. The senses seemed to wither, and the mind became sluggish and unfocused. It was almost like floating in a warm river, moving with the flow from one place to another without thought or care. In contrast to his mood, a strong wind battered at the window as it whistled and howled past. The room was sympathetically cold; the old radiator tried to rise to the challenge, plinking and groaning as it struggled.

While his temper terrified him, this emotional and mental languor was by far the most destructive. In the past, he had had to crawl and claw his way out on hands and knees as he struggled to free himself of his insidious stupor. The effort had drained him; everything seemed less than what it had been when he'd emerged back into the light. It was almost as though he had had to reawaken each sense and aspect of himself before he was back to... what? Normal?

A bitter chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he closed his eyes on the pages flapping as innocently and as emotively as the feathers on a dead bird. The book may as well be a decaying carcass of his plans, dreams, aspirations and his needs. His heavy head lolled and struck the back of the sofa; the slight sting was welcome in this emotionally barren place, and he latched onto the throbbing heat on his scalp. Swallowing, he knew where that could lead, so he lifted his head and opened his eyes. Ignoring the book, he stood and shuffled over to the bed. Maybe a nap would help?

Lying on the cool mattress, sleep was just as difficult to grasp as any sense of normality, and he resorted to studying the cracks on the ceiling. Three of the fine lines worked together to look like a jagged profile. Once he realised that, no matter how he tried, he could see nothing other than Snape's hooked nose and high forehead.

Snape!

Groaning out at his monumental stupidity, Neville curled up onto his side and buried his face in the duvet's folds. How could I have been so stupid as to think that he'd help me! he thought bitterly. Perhaps a bout of desperation had dulled his wits when he had considered asking Snape for help? It was a reasonable explanation. Months of searching had yielded nothing, and he had been despairingly contemplating ending his task. Seeing Snape had seemed like a beacon in the dark!

Neville laughed out harshly. I must have been bloody desperate!

The former Headmaster had been an icon of fear throughout the school; even the Death Eaters assigned to the school had seemed wary of the black-clad wizard. First-years had cried themselves to sleep... So had a few seventh-year students. How Snape had been hated! Neville would admit that after the Dark Lord, he'd have killed Snape next... then the Carrows. It was horrific to think that his years in school had given him the edge needed to make a killing strike. It had mortified him further to realise that if he had carried out his dreadful intentions, then he would have killed a man undeserving of such a fate.

Pummelling the duvet, he smoothed the material away from his face and glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It was five thirty in the afternoon; Snape would be almost back if he had started walking as soon as Neville had left. His stomach churned unpleasantly at the thought: What had Snape thought? Oh Merlin! What would Snape do?

~X~

Snape was in no position to do anything about anything. Wheezing and pressing a hand against the burning pain in his left forearm, he lumbered up the stairs to his room. Thankfully, no one was at the reception or loitering around to see him struggle. Lurching along the corridor, Snape kept his eyes on his goal: the door to his room. He was sure that the room hadn't been this far from the stairs last night!

Fumbling in his pocket, he withdrew the key, and with a trembling hand, slid it into the lock. It took two attempts to unlock the door before he could stumble into the room, gratefully slamming the door shut behind him. Gasping for breath and leaning against the door frame, he glanced over to his potions kit resting on the dresser. He thought about rejecting his need, but pain lanced out to recede in aching waves before surging forwards again. His vision was already blurred, and sweat ran in rivulets down his back. Snape fancied that black tendrils were burrowing beneath his skin, erupting from the Dark Mark and aiming for his heart and brain.

Bile rushed up at the thought of taking the Ministry's potion, but he knew that he had little choice. He needed the draught. Every muscle now ached, his left arm felt weighted and useless. He could hear his frantic breaths in his ringing ears, and his chest felt that his heart was trying to burst through his sternum. It was only a matter of steps towards the dresser, but each step would be a pain-filled challenge.

The sharp agony of his hip crashing against the wood was an ironic reward for his efforts. Wincing and groaning, Snape grabbed hold of the dresser to stop himself from falling to the floor. One shaking hand reached out, and stiff fingers lifted the latch on the kit. The lid popped open, and his hand darted inside. He knew exactly where that potion rested. Yanking his hand free, Snape slid to the floor. Unstoppering the phial, he downed the lot.

He had to admit that whoever had devised and brewed the potion had known what they were doing, and he had to admire their skill, even if it was with a degree of acrimony. Slowly, the pain in his forearm diminished, and he found that without its sharp claws gripping him, he could breathe all the easier. The shivering that had robbed him of fine movement also abated, and he felt more in control of himself. Blinking away sweat, he was gratified to see that his eyesight had improved. The waves of nausea ebbed away, and all that remained was the ever-present fatigue and the pain in his throat; the murderous desires of the Dark Mark had been curbed, but Nagini's parting gifts were non-refundable.

Out of morbid curiosity, he pulled back his cuff and looked at the constant scar that marked him for death. Despite the agony and the threat it posed, the Mark still looked as pale as it had when the Dark Lord had seemingly died at the hands of a baby nearly twenty years earlier. Twitching, spittle-flecked lips stretched back in a sneer, and he harshly tugged his sleeve back down. He had been promised freedom many times. And he had almost had it on the floor of the Shrieking Shack.

Damn Potter for once again stealing something from me.

~X~

Somehow, he'd managed to get into bed shortly after drinking the potion. The clock cast its eerie, green glow along with the time: eight thirty. His mouth felt awful, and his throat was typically dry and sore. Wincing, he swallowed carefully as he lifted himself up and swung his legs off the bed. The bathroom seemed a long way away, but he craved some water, so, sighing, he sauntered off to get a drink. With his head aching from the events of the day, he was reluctant to turn on the light and relied instead upon his sense of touch to appease his thirst.

Looking up, he was a dark shape in the mirror, an almost indistinguishable shadow in the gloom. Something about that anonymity and lack of identity both appealed and repulsed him, and he had to turn away and leave the bathroom to ease his disconcertion. Cradling the plastic cup against his chest, he wandered over to the window. The curtains were still open, and through the cold glass, he could just make out the outline of the mountains against the starry sky. Other than that, he could see nothing, save for the ghostly reflection that disturbed him.

Closing the curtains, he padded over to the sofa and sat down heavily, feeling remarkably weary. The cup seemed cold and fragile in his hands, and he longed for a hearty cup of tea, but that meant going down to the reception to ask for a restock of his in-room supplies. He had a phone, but his voice would not carry, and the spell to enhance his volume would be rendered moot through the Muggle technology. Would the benefits of a cuppa outweigh the risks of bumping into Longbottom? His stomach settled the debate by rumbling loudly; he needed food.

~X~

Hunger had gnawed at him, his first feeling since the emptiness, but as he chased a chip round the plate with his fork, he no longer felt the same appetite. The gravy oozed to fill the void left by the harassed chip, and he was mesmerised by its smooth and sedate movement. If only everything could return to normal as easily and swiftly. Suddenly disgusted by the sight, he dropped the fork with a clatter and sat back in his chair.

It had been a mistake to come here, he thought to himself as he watched the tealight's small flame flicker in the frosted glass bowl. What was I thinking? I should have just given up... It would have been better in the long run.

The realisation slashed through him, and he felt tears sting his eyes. Admitting defeat was half the battle, but if it was, then he feared the rest...admitting it had hurt! It was all he had left, though. The dreams that he had harboured, all those precious hopes that he'd protected... they were all dead now. The woman that he had...no!...still loved was engaged to another, and the job that he had wanted since his second-year was as far from his grasp as the moon. The desire to heal his mum and dad was the very last and the most precious to him; to crush it, crushed him.

It was as his last dream fluttered in reality's crucible that he saw Snape talking to the receptionist. As inspiring visions went, it would be hard work to consider the lean frame and hooked nose of Snape as descriptors of a harbinger of good fortune, but Neville felt his insides churn when his gaze landed upon the wizard. Snape was his only chance! Perhaps coming here wasn't such a mistake after all! Perhaps, just maybe, fate had thrown him a lifeline.

~X~

The Fates were punishing him. It was the only explanation. As soon as he thought that he had been spared from trial, he would turn to find it staring him in the face. His stomach dropped, and his chest tightened at the sight of Longbottom standing a mere two feet from him. If it wasn't for the lingering fatigue and Muggle presence, Snape may have felt obliged to hex the young man for being so... light-footed and sneaky!

"Professor Snape," Neville began, only to fade in the face of Snape's cool stare. He coughed and inhaled deeply. "I want to apologise for rushing off and..."

"Don't concern yourself," Snape cut in sharply. "I was quite able to take care of myself."

Neville felt himself flush, and he fidgeted with the flap of material over his jacket pocket. Fidgeting! How can I be so... pathetic! he thought angrily, thrusting his hands into the pockets. "Of course," he amended, "I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't." Why do you have to be so prickly?

He was losing it, he could tell. With every passing moment, Snape's expression was becoming stonier. What was he doing? Snape would never help him. Hadn't he figured that out after seven years of being taught? It was all going wrong! Nothing made sense any more. He had nothing, and the things he wanted were beyond him... What was the point?

It was unnerving! No one, other than Aurors, vengeance-driven wizards and an indefatigable Headmistress, actively sought him out; it was quite disconcerting; and to cap it all, it was Neville Longbottom doing the seeking. If he recalled correctly, he had made the lad's life incredibly difficult. All he could think was that some purpose beyond mere manners and pride was haunting and compelling the youth.

Watching the man almost squirming before him was generating mixed feelings. Snape was rather selfishly enjoying the sight of his presence having some effect while another part sympathised with the man's need to do something that opposed sensibility. And there was something that forced Neville to bury all those terrible years and his fear. Snape knew what is what like to have to be something that he despised and do things that revolted him.

"Tea?" he snapped out, surprising himself as much as Neville. "Stop gaping like a trout," Snape said without rancour. "Would you care for some tea?"

The pale man swallowed and nodded slowly. "Erm, yes. Thank you."

Snape turned to the bemused receptionist and muttered something to her before indicating that Neville should follow him upstairs.

The receptionist chuckled and hummed a merry tune as she corrected the note that she had written following the enigmatic man's final request. Her colleague left the small office behind the counter and sauntered over, drawn by the apparent amusement of his friend.

"What's perked you up? You were as miserable as sin when your shift started."

She folded her note and grinned up at him. "Just feeling slightly superior at the moment."

He gave a short laugh and folded his arms across his chest as he leant against the counter. "Oh?"

Her grin became positively impish as she thought about the items to be sent to Mr Snape's room. "At least, I know when I'm interested in someone."

Puzzled, the man glanced up at the two men ascending the stairs. "Them?" he asked, his tone indicating that he was far from convinced.

"Hmm mm," she confirmed.

"They hate each other!" he argued.

She shrugged her shoulders and grinned up knowingly. "Can you remember what the younger man had for dinner last night?"

The man snorted derisively and waved his hand dismissively. "Can you remember what I had to eat when we went out for dinner the other night?" he countered.

"You had the steak and ale pie with chips and peas, followed by treacle toffee pudding," she retorted without hesitation before blushing and finding the note suddenly fascinating.

Oblivious, the man grumbled under his breath. "You just have a good memory and a food obsession," he griped. "I still fail to grasp the point, and no; I can't remember what he had for dinner."

"Well, the other fellow did," she stated firmly, prodding him playfully in the chest. "Mr Snape ordered for him and asked for a tuna melt baguette."

"All that proves is that Mr Snape saw him eat some tuna and knows that it's a good choice to make."

She sighed and folded her arms across her chest. "No wonder you're still single," she said despairingly.

"Trust me," he said simply, ignoring her comment. "They hate each other."

A frown marred her features, and then, she sighed resignedly. "Maybe," she conceded generously. "But it's a fine divide."

~X~

It hadn't been this terrifying standing outside Snape's office while at Hogwarts, and Neville felt his head spin as the door to Snape's room opened up. He felt that the hinges should have creaked ominously or a cold, musty blast should have erupted from the darkened depths. Only the susurrus of the door over carpet and the subtle smell of pot-pourri greeted him.

"Well! Don't dawdle!"

Neville jumped and followed the older man into the room. It was the same as his room, save for the luggage and the colour of the duvet: it brought a smirk to his lips. His quilt was green and Snape's was a deep red. But despite that ironic observation momentarily stifling his unease, he couldn't help but realise that he was in Snape's room: Oh Merlin! Snape's room.

"I took the liberty of ordering some food for you," Snape said swiftly. "You look pale, and I doubt that you ate when you returned earlier."

"Thank you," Neville replied calmly, trying to suppress the almost manic surprise at Snape's generosity and consideration.

Snape harrumphed and directed his guest to sit. "I hardly wanted you to pass out in my room from lack of food," he said dismissively. "Given my current status in the Wizarding world, I could do with minimising scandal."

There was that sudden bout of disorientation again...that recurrent, horrible indecision regarding Snape's intention. Had the man been humorous or just provided a wry observation of his life? It was so disconcerting, and to feel so wrong-footed was adding unbearably to his unease. Neville almost rejected Snape's offer to sit.

Braving the situation, Neville sat but regretted it as Snape loomed over him, those black eyes studying him intently. The unease intensified into dread, then panic... Then, he was struggling to breathe, and his heart was hammering.

Oh Merlin! I can't breathe! No air! Get away from me... Don't let me go, Mummy.

Something screamed in his ears, and Snape's dark outline filled his diminishing field of vision; as his panic became fully-fledged fear, he felt hands on him and then... nothing.

Oh bugger! Snape thought as Neville slumped across the sofa. It had been going so well as well! In spite of his dark humour, he felt his own panic begin to stir. An unconscious wizard was sprawled on his settee in his room; a wizard who would be the last to be called a friend. In fact, it would be more likely that the youth had come to settle some score. If this got out...of course, it'd get out! Ear-piercing screams had this annoying habit of getting out.

Removing his wand, Snape levitated the insensate wizard over to the bed and dropped him onto the red duvet... how fitting! he groused. Dragging his hand over his face, he cast several charms; the first was a soporific to help Neville sleep for a while...Legilimency had highlighted a few issues...and then, he cast spells to determine what was happening beyond the room. Life-detecting charms showed that the rooms immediately around his were empty, and nothing seemed to suggest frantic actions to report a deadly crime. Satisfied that the scream had actually passed unnoticed, he twisted the sofa round so that it faced the foot of the bed. Sitting down, he studied the slumbering, troubled man.

The spells, as few as they had been, had exhausted him, and he wanted nothing more than to settle off to sleep himself, but he felt in some way responsible for Neville's distress, and it pestered his mind into dark musings. The inspired thoughts pained him... So much about his past pained him. Grimacing, he glared at Neville...Why did you have to show up and ruin it? Couldn't you have left me alone or killed me quietly? This is a nightmare for me! What do you want from me?

Jolting at the knock on the door, he leapt from his seat and rushed to open the door. The smiling face of the receptionist greeted him, and he remembered the food and drinks that he had ordered. Schooling his features, he smiled and opened the door wider, noting with some distaste that her eyes lingered on the sleeping form in his bed as she strode in. Dropping the tray on the table, she withdrew the receipt for him to sign. Hastily scrawling his name, he thrust it back to her, ignoring her smirk.

"Would you care for anything else, sir," she asked, her curving lips adding volumes to the question...the content becoming clearer as he followed her gaze from wine bottle... to bed... and back to wine.

Oh, good grief! he thought incredulously. "No," he replied curtly, opening the door for her.

"Goodnight then, sir," she said to the closing door.

Foolish chit!

Still hungry, he walked over to the tray and lifted up one of the plates, admiring the thick steak sandwich. Caramelised onions slipped from the bread, and the tang of mustard warmed his nose. The slices of slightly pink steak looked juicy and tender, and the baguette was nicely toasted. The table came with two high-backed wooden chairs, and while his gaze was latched appreciatively on his dinner, he lowered himself onto the chair's cushioned seat. Quickly casting a preservation charm on Neville's sandwich, he took a bite. He was determined to enjoy it as much as possible before the inevitable, depressing reminder from the Ministry.

Somehow, the sandwich didn't quite satisfy him as much as he'd hoped. He found himself pausing to watch Neville in between bites. The notion that the receptionist had planted was ridiculous, but just as doxies were annoying hard to shift, so was the thought as it buzzed around in his skull. Is that what Neville wanted? It couldn't be. It didn't seem sane let alone plausible. The chaotic thoughts in the youth's head had indicated some desperate desire, some potent need, but the thought that it was Snape whom he craved was laughable, but Snape was sure that Neville needed him for something. The only logical and sane notion was that Neville needed his Potions knowledge.

The steak sandwich no longer rested as snugly in his stomach. What would Neville do and feel when he had to tell the boy that he was forbidden to offer such aid to him... to anyone?

As if in synch with his sudden depression, an owl tapped on the glass. If only he could ignore it. Feeling sick to his stomach, Snape walked over and opened the small window. The bird slipped in and glided silently across the room to perch on the back of Snape's vacated seat. The owl extended its leg and flexed its talons. They must train these birds to be as obnoxious as the rest of the Ministry's employees, he grumbled as he walked back to where he had just been.

Without approval, the owl scooped up some slivers of steak from his plate as payment for delivering something that he didn't want. Frustrated, Snape snatched the scroll from the beast's leg and swiped at it, making use of the unwanted letter. With a screech, the bird launched itself from the chair in a flurry of flapping wings and swooped out of the window. Sneering, he spelled the window shut and cleaned the chair... noting with chagrin that the sandwich was beyond saving. His hand trembled minutely as he unrolled the missive, knowing what would be written on it, he swallowed the waves of nausea.

Patient S.S. one-six-nine,

Healer Barret

Clenching his fist, he crushed the letter; they couldn't even be bothered to write up-to-date demands. It was the same format with only the lot number and date changing. He was sure that should he die and the potion be spilt in his absence, then an owl would arrive to tap futilely on his headstone.

He despised the powerlessness of being in need. He had to obey the every whim of the accursed Ministry, and it left him feeling more used than he had ever felt before. As his mind descended into recollections of just what a day at the Ministry entailed, his head dropped into his trembling hands, and he curbed the sob threatening to escape. He would not be weak now, not after everything that he'd had to endure, but it was so hard.

The sound of Neville shifting in his sleep disturbed him, and he glanced up. As sources of inspiration and motivation went, it would be surprising that Snape saw Neville as a source of hope, but as the young man muttered and curled up on the red duvet, Snape had a rebellious idea. Maybe helping Neville would restore some sense of power. His lips curved up in a grim smile. It would be fun to defy the Ministry; all the talents and skills that he'd honed as a matter of survival would be used again... This time, to help him survive this empty life.