Dreams and Discussions

Images pestered his slumbering mind, and it seemed that no amount of wishing or straining allowed him to wake; he was trapped with his nightmares and felt utterly helpless. It was doubly frustrating that he couldn't quite determine what terrorised him. Strange silhouettes and freakish flashes skittered through his skull. He thought at one point that he heard voices...some desperate demand, and a serene voice with such clarity and power that it momentarily rendered the dread impotent. But despite those dulcet tones, he felt chilled and terrified.

The nightmare was one that had haunted him as a young child, and one that had seemingly fled during his time at Hogwarts, resurfacing when he returned home for holidays and more prevalently after he had graduated. Years of suffering the same horrible dream should have given him the chance to elucidate its meaning and source, but it remained frustratingly elusive. He had as little information about it now as he had when he had first dreamt it.

He did, however, know what was coming.

The wail jolted Snape awake, and he twisted in his seat to catch sight of Neville thrashing on the bed as though fighting off a Dementor. Hastening to the man's side, Snape cast the counter charm to the earlier soporific in a bid to ease the man's awakening. Pursing his lips, Snape straightened...the spell had had no effect; Neville was in a natural sleep...and opted to cast a spell that would muffle any sounds leaving the room. It was unwise to wake someone from a bad dream... Especially a wizard. Being mistaken for the source of a dreamer's terror could lead to the receiving of any number of nasty curses. Certainly, it was much wiser to let them come out of it naturally.

After the initial flurry of activity and Neville calming slightly, Snape noticed that the Ministry's damned letter was still clutched in his hand, and he sneered as he strolled back to deposit the burden on the table. Oh, how he'd love to incinerate the thing! But he'd done that with the first one and had received a fine and a stern, very public, admonishment from the Ministry...a Howler over breakfast and before eight hundred or so students and various members of staff is not a pleasant experience. It had been the more private letter received later with its dire warning that had, of course, battered at his petulance... The threat of Azkaban.

It was true that with the vast majority of Dementors on the loose Azkaban was no longer quite the terrible place that it had once been. But in their place, the Ministry had appointed gaolers and Wardens, and they had their own tactics for keeping the prisoners down. In some ways, Snape would have preferred to have faced the Dementors; at least they could take little from him as they made him relive the very worst moments of his life.

He craved light! The cold, the darkness seeping into the room, and Neville, whimpering like the inmates that he'd left, collided to smother and stifle him. Hastily, Snape flicked on the light switch, squinting as the artificial light flooded the room, and he rubbed at his tender throat.

How foolish! he chided. Jumping at shadows like a child!

Inhaling and walking back to the sofa, he sat down and pulled the blanket over his legs. It seemed that he wasn't the only one feeling or being made to feel like a child... Neville was asking for his mother again: the same plaintive whisper that he had cried out earlier. It was said that soldiers dying on the battlefield asked for their mothers, and he knew that those in great fear and pain also uttered that plea. He had heard the cries for mothers far too frequently, and he could only imagine the cries of the mothers.

Oh, so maudlin! he thought dismissively.

But he knew why Neville's crying for his mum was making him feel so sick and filthy.

"They're the best target...the others are either too well guarded or too powerful to approach." Bella's voice was harsh, stifling the possibility of contradiction by sheer force of will. There were a few mumblings, but no one openly disputed her decision. "Frank Longbottom was the Auror in charge of the investigation at Godric's Hollow; he would know more than anyone about what happened to our Lord that night." Her dark eyes glittered in the candlelight, and her lips were parted. She had acquired fear and respect while thriving in her Master's shadow, but now, she was experiencing the delicious drug that was power. It flowed through her, seeping from her like honey, and he could see how his comrades drank deeply, becoming as addicted to her as she was to the new-found power. "We have a way to encourage him to be honest with us." Her pale lips curved up in a subtle, vicious smile, and her tongue flicked out to moisten her upper lip. "He has a young son."

Head fit to explode and lungs burning, Neville shrieked and sat bolt upright in bed! His fingers scrabbled at the covers, trying to clutch at the fading traces of the nightmare. As always, he was left to suffer the fear while the cause danced away. Luckily, the light bulb in the room was not so potent that it had the capacity to seemingly sear his retina, but it encouraged him to squint which rendered the room down into indistinguishable shapes and shadows.

Hotel room... In Wales.The soothing thought began to relax him, and his heart slowed its rapid tempo. Red duvet. Bedside cabinet.He frowned at that observation; something wasn't quite right. As the source of his consternation settled like thunderclouds over a parade, he looked again at the duvet still held in his fierce grip. Red duvet. Snape's room!

Licking his lips and glancing around the room, Neville tried to see where Snape was lurking. How could I have fallen asleep? What was I thinking? What had Snape thought? Oh Merlin! What has Snape done while I slept? It was quite a creepy thought, and Neville felt incredibly nauseous; it didn't help that he had no idea where his former professor was. As far as he was aware, he had earlier humiliated Snape, and the man had reacted... well, quite interestingly really, but as of yet had not exacted any revenge as such. What form would Snape's reprisal take? Suddenly, the idea of having detention with Snape lost all fear-inducing capability; the thought of being in a room with Snape and no one knowing that he was there was far more worrying.

Neville's frantic eyes homed in on a shape on the sofa, and as his mind sorted out the curves and angles, he realised that the collection of shapes equalled the outline of Snape hunched on the settee. It was quite awkward; he felt a constant shift from embarrassment to dread and back again. Should he apologise? Was conking out in someone's hotel room considered relatively okay, or was it a complete no-no? Just how badly would Snape tongue-lash him? Oh crap! Did I cry out? Did he hear?

The man in question stood, cast him an indecipherable glance and walked over to the table. Neville watched in mute fascination and quiet dread. He no longer knew if he trembled as a result of the nightmare or due to whatever was about to happen. It was a remarkably unpleasant experience. So much for being the one who had stood up against Voldemort!

"You're probably thirsty," Snape said in a manner that suggested if Neville hadn't been thirsty, then he should now be practically gasping for some water.

"Yes," he replied happily, knowing that he was in complete agreement with Snape. However, he still had to stomp on the flicker of suspicion as Snape held out a glass of water.

"I haven't done anything to it," snapped out the Potions master. "Many of the rumours about me are quite untrue," he continued less harshly.

Neville grinned sheepishly and reached out to take the glass. "Of course."

Snape watched Neville take a few cautious sips...foolish boy!...and then, the young man greedily gulped down the last few mouthfuls, much to Snape's envy.

"You suffer bad dreams frequently?"

The question punctured the uncomfortable silence and created an uncomfortable expectation. Neville inhaled slowly, and his gaze slipped from Snape's cool expression to the glass held in his tense fingers. It still puzzled him that Snape was demonstrating something akin to concern...oh! He knew that Snape had almost died for them, but that didn't mean that the man had to be nice! This 'concern' was unexpected and although not entirely unpleasant, it still made him uncomfortable.

But given that, he was willing to shove any bad feeling to the side; his parents meant more to him than the easing of his mild discomfort. Besides, if he was honest, there was something about this Snape that drew him... After all, it hadn't been completely necessary to have followed and watched Snape as he had relaxed by the river. Shaking his head, he grinned ruefully and looked up.

"Yes," he said quietly. "Almost every night."

"A Dreamless Sleep potion would ease some of your nightly distress," Snape suggested.

"I've tried them," Neville said softly, his grin fading. "I find that taking them frequently just makes me lethargic during the day."

"Yes," agreed Snape kindly. "They do have that rather annoying consequence, and unless you want to take more potions to alleviate the fatigue, then you either have to face the nightmares or drink endless cups of coffee... which has its own nasty side-effects...especially as you age."

Neville nodded slowly; it seemed that Snape not only understood what he was going through but was also sympathetic.

"I have, in part, grown accustomed to them."

Snape tutted and folded his arms across his chest. "They're not something to grow accustomed to, Longbottom," he said sharply. "You grow to accept and deal with them; accustomed suggests... that they pop round uninvited for a cup of tea and a chat, and you have to humour them... and stop grinning like that," he interjected sternly at Neville's growing smile.

"Pomona once said pretty much the same thing," he explained, humour lacing his voice. "She said that visiting you was an ordeal that she had grown accustomed to."

Snape felt his own lips twitch. The impromptu visits had been quite frequent at first, and Professor Sprout's bubbly enthusiasm had been almost overpowering; if someone could be accosted through sheer goodwill, then Snape had been at risk for several months after rejoining the fold. "I recall that she tried to encourage some discussion about topical events... under the guise of asking about combining sections of the Herbology and Potions' syllabi...it was an excellent idea, I may add...but she was so... persistent about other things...as if I really have or want... an opinion on the success of the Chudley Cannons or the latest column in Witches Weekly." He raised his arms to highlight his exasperation and sauntered back to the sofa; exhaustion gripped him as it was wont to do when he was enthused and momentarily forgot himself. "I grew... to quite admire... her strength of character."

Neville gave his first honest laugh in months. "How did you manage to dissuade her from visiting? I've tried various tactics, and none of them have been successful."

Snape turned to him, looking surprised at Neville's inadvertent confession. "I was under the impression... that you were fond of Professor Sprout?"

"Oh, I am," said Neville hastily, his expression panic-stricken. "I just... it's just that..." he faltered, his mood becoming morose. "Sometimes, I'd rather be left alone and not have my life picked apart in the name of good intentions."

"Wouldn't we all," mumbled Snape under his breath, the image of a certain Scottish Headmistress springing to mind. Turning to Neville, he continued in a louder voice, "It is my experience that to actively discourage such things... only encourages them to be more... determined. The most effective way... is to assure them that they are not needed. Some women like to feel that they are needed... deprive them of that... and they feel quite unwanted... something that they dislike." Minerva's smirking face danced into view, but he had covered himself by saying 'some women'.

"That works?" Neville asked with bewilderment.

"On some women," Snape confirmed. "I have the greatest of respect for Professor Sprout... there are not many wizards who could get a Whomping Willow to bow to them. She is a strong woman." He shifted so that he could face Neville proper. "She just likes to be useful and dislikes being reminded that she isn't."

"It sounds less... erm... sneaky than what I've been doing," admitted Neville sheepishly.

"What have you been doing?" Snape asked, intrigued at the thought of Neville being sneaky.

Neville's guilty expression intensified, and he bit his lower lip. "I cast a Disillusionment Charm and pretend I'm out."

Snape looked quite blank as he processed his confession, and Neville felt his guts roll unpleasantly, but then, the strangest sound erupted...Snape was laughing! It was more a strange rumble rather than a hearty laugh; only the merest of sounds actually escaped from his damaged throat, but it was clear by the way the shoulders shook that Snape was having a good old belly laugh. Neville wondered how Snape would have sounded if he hadn't been injured; it seemed that his laugh would have been rich and deep.

"That's priceless!" Snape finally managed to announce in between wheezes. "The boy... who beheaded Nagini... and told the Dark Lord... what he could do with his plans... hides from his sweet, old, Herbology professor!"

"I never said that I was pleased about it," Neville countered sulkily. "It's just been the most effective method thus far."

At any other time, he may have been more wounded by Snape's reaction, but he was quite relieved that the conversation had shifted from his nightmares to his minor dilemma regarding Pomona. It was also actually far more interesting than upsetting to see Snape laughing about his troubles...who would have thought that the man had a sense of humour? And it was fairly pathetic that he had resorted to hiding. Neville felt the laughter bubble up, and pretty soon, he was chuckling alongside his former tormentor. It was quite pleasant.

When he had last laughed like this? Years? Decades? It felt so good, even with the pain in his throat and fatigue pressing down on him. It felt wonderful. Snape was also gratified to see that Neville had sloughed off his despair and was just as amused. But he knew better than most that some things were worn as a mask, and he suspected that Neville had been wearing a mask for many years.

But he didn't want to think of masks, and he didn't want to have to face the memories that were clamouring for attention, so he held onto the unfamiliar humour and feelings of camaraderie. It was quite easy to forget that Neville Longbottom had been a former student of his; in truth, the young man laughing on his bed was almost unrecognisable... almost a stranger.

Up to that point in time, only McGonagall had been able to see past the sting of his comments to see the point of his words, and he had been rather content with that arrangement...it kept many of his colleagues and students away unless there was a certain degree of necessity, and that helped maintain a certain level of peace. The idea that he could be sociable if he made some effort was something that McGonagall had tormented him with. She had thrown the notion in his face at every opportunity and invaded his loneliness at inopportune moments: after sleepless nights, during bouts of depression... his birthday. Frustrating woman! he thought fondly.

So, sitting with Neville and realising that he was enjoying the company was quite the revelation. It was made all the more astounding by the fact that Neville had had to make barely any effort to achieve such a state. In her bid, Minerva had: spent Galleons on fresh tea and Ginger Newts; dedicated precious personal time to the task; and invested heavily in relaxation therapy before Snape had relented and admitted that she was his friend. Although, they had both known the truth of their relationship the day she had visited him at Spinners' End to tell him that he 'could have his old job back, if his social calendar would permit'. The memory of that conversation still had the power to warm him.

The smile curving Snape's lips weakened; he and Minerva had nurtured a friendship based on a variety of factors...mutual respect, sense of humour, similar opinions, and some that they never dwelt upon but quietly shared...but what had drawn he and Neville into this bizarre acquaintanceship? The smile completely deserted him. Was it that thing within Neville that he had caught a glimpse of which connected them? Neville had stopped smiling and was looking at Snape with an appraising expression on his pale features. No, thought Snape as he looked into the silvery-grey eyes; they had and were suffering something vey similar: an obligation.

"Why did you seek me out, Mr Longbottom?"

The pale eyes flickered, but the features remained immobile. "I need your help."

It was simple and honest, just like the Neville he remembered, but just as the man before him was enigmatic, so the answer hid a multitude of complexities and troubles.

"In what way?" Snape asked cautiously.

Neville looked away. "I have been working on a potion for the last ten years, give or take a few months, and it keeps failing."

"There are people who could help you, for a modest fee," Snape said flatly. The risks of working against the Ministry had to be outweighed by what Neville needed; otherwise, it would be akin to tickling a sleeping dragon...bloody stupid! Snape had to be sure that he really was Neville's last chance.

"I've tried," Neville snapped out, lunging from the mattress to pace the small space between wall and bed. "I've tried them all! They all say that it can't be done."

"Sometimes, popular opinion is the right answer."

"No!" Snape stiffened at the vehemence in Neville's voice and expression. "They are lazy and untalented. I have come so close so many times, and I'm the dunderhead!"

"That still does not mean..."

"Granted!" interjected Neville abruptly, rounding on Snape with an almost manic grin. "But I know that it can work; I just need the fine touch of a Potions master."

Shaking his head and reining in his own eager need to leap up and accept, Snape stood and spread his arms apologetically. "The term is nothing more than a job title. I have no formal qualifications beyond NEWT level potions." The crushed look on Neville's face was terrible to witness, but Snape had to be sure that helping Longbottom was worth the possible ramifications. "But I have often quibbled over the so-called skill of those who profess to be experts."

"So," began Neville tentatively, "it is possible that you may be able to do what they say can't be done?"

Snape inhaled slowly and crossed his arms. "Some things just cannot be done, Mr Longbottom," he said firmly. "It may be that I only confirm what the others have said." At his crestfallen look, Snape decided...rather impulsively, he thought...to help the boy out. "It may also be that I find a way to make it work."

~X~

The black book had never been so thoroughly examined. Had it been capable, it would have almost been embarrassed at its shabby cover, dog-eared pages and strained spine; it may have sought sympathy for the tea stains and the blobs of ink that had nothing to do with its quality of manufacture, and it may have wagged its slender, ribbon bookmark in joy as Snape slowly drew his fingertip across the best bits.

"All very well presented," Snape said after an hour of intense perusal.

Neville wiped crumbs from his lips and hastily swallowed his last mouthful of tuna melt baguette. "Would it have gotten me an Acceptable in Potions?" he asked glibly.

Snape turned the page and ignored the question; if Neville had generated such work in the classroom, he would have surpassed Granger. He felt a flicker of frustration... Why couldn't the pupils work like this while in school, rather than seeing the value of it afterwards?

"There is a common theme in all these ideas and methods."

Neville felt all playfulness vanish...he should have known! Snape would have easily seen through the plans to the end result, and he would have to explain. But it was so hard! Perhaps Snape saw his inner distress because he bookmarked the page and closed the book.

"I can start work with what you have here," Snape said generously, letting Neville off the hook. "The only problem is that we'll need to discuss this at regular intervals. Your knowledge of what has been successful and what has not is in your head and in these pages. I have no intention of wasting time going over what you already know."

Nonplussed, Neville frowned and turned to face Snape. Discussing the contents of the book shouldn't pose any problems, so Neville couldn't see any difficulty. "I have Floo access and no commitments; communication isn't an issue."

Snape stiffened and flashed Neville a humourless grin. "Whereas I have no Floo access, and I am very limited in what I can do," Snape said softly. "In fact, Mr Longbottom, I should not be helping you at all."

Gobsmacked, Neville thought back to the Aurors, and something slithered down his spine. "You'll be breaking the law to help me?" At Snape's nod, he grimaced and his head dropped into his hands. "You were the last, you know," he mumbled after a strained pause. "I had almost given up hope and then, there you were." He gave a bitter laugh and lifted his head to study the face of his last and now lost help. "It was almost like it had been designed." Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. "Fate is a cruel bitch."

It was shocking to hear Neville curse with such vitriol. "Do not be rude to the lady," Snape chided gently. "I don't recall saying that I wouldn't help you." Neville's bemused and hopeful expression made a return. "It just means that we have to be prudent."

"How?" Neville asked and then blushed as Snape's scrutiny intensified. "Stealth isn't a requirement of a Herbology enthusiast," he explained defensively.

Snape was thinking back to much earlier: he knew that Longbottom would live to regret the term 'assistant'. "You already know the answer to that question, Professor Longbottom," Snape said with a rather evil smirk.

"I do?" After a few minutes the penny dropped, and he felt the torrent of excuses tumbling over themselves to be expressed. "I can't."

The terror of his school days leant forwards, those deep, black eyes boring into him, and the mouth curving up into a smile. "It is the only way that both our goals can be achieved. If you want this to work, then you will make Professor Sprout's year and agree to take over from her as Herbology professor."

Lips flapping uselessly as he tried to think up some reasonable excuse, Neville felt his late supper stir menacingly, but he knew that Snape was right. Besides, he had wanted the job for years, the only impediment being Snape. He sniggered at that. The 'impediment' was egging him on to join, welcoming him with open arms: how surreal!

"Okay."

"Well done, Longbottom," Snape said rather too benevolently. At least now with you in school, he thought to himself, I won't have to lock my office door and pretend that I'm not in when Professor Sprout does her rounds. "As far as I can recall, the job has not been offered to anyone else; apply now, and you can join the staff before the start of the Autumn term."

"But that's in four weeks' time!" he flustered. "I can't possibly teach a class. I have no idea what to do or say."

"Calm yourself," Snape soothed. "Due to the uncertainty about the role, she has settled to do the first term. I daresay that she would be thrilled to have you by her side, learning the ropes." Neville looked unconvinced, and Snape's temper flared. "I face Azkaban for helping you; you will face a classroom of dunderheads. Is the potion worth it?"

Neville's cheeks flushed and those odd, metallic eyes narrowed; Snape had to tame his emotions so that his concern would not seep across his face. "The potion is worth that to me!"

Snape almost shuddered at the coldness and sincerity of the young man's affirmation: what would cost too much? he wondered. But it confirmed that his rash decision to help was certainly worth it.

"Very good," Snape uttered softly as he walked to he door. "Goodnight, Mr Longbottom."

Neville nodded and moved towards the door, slipping past Snape into the hallway. "Goodnight, Professor Snape."

Snape moved to close the door, but Neville's hand shot out to stop the door. Startled, Snape looked up into the silhouetted face.

"Thank you, sir," Neville said firmly.

Snape nodded, but the hand remained flat against the wood, halting the progress of the door, and the silence seemed to threaten a torrid expression of some sorts. They both held their breath. Snape was sure that Neville was about to say something, but then, the palm slid away from the door with the merest hiss of skin against wood, and the young man was heading towards his own room. Frowning, he closed the door and plodded back to the rumpled bed; never had a 'thank you' seemed so full. As he worked on his buttons, Snape wondered just what Neville was thanking him for.

Author's Notes: The italicised section featuring Bella is taken from Sweet Sanctuary which will act as a companion piece to this story. However, it is not necessary to read that story to follow this one. If you wish to read the story, you can locate it on this site and under 'sweetflag'.