Sorting and Surprises

Neville walked towards the fountain that had teased his curiosity the day before. It would be his last chance to walk in the courtyard before the students swarmed through, and he wanted to savour it. His eager eyes darted over the flowers and herbs as he walked around the gently babbling structure. The early morning sun warmed the nape of his neck when he came to crouch before Slytherin's bed, and he reached out to gently stroke a sage leaf.

Whoever had planted the sage had fallen back on old superstitions: they made sure it wasn't alone...it was boxed in by neighbouring herbs. Somehow, though, it defied its companions and dominated the small bed. Frowning, Neville plucked a silvery green leaf and nibbled it. He'd lingered in this area for the majority of his stay...drawn by the fountain...and he couldn't recall seeing flowers during that time. Judging by the thick mass of sage, the flowers had been harvested with some enthusiasm. He felt a brief surge of disappointment: this sage had beautiful, purple blooms.

Nestled against the sage was a small clump of rosemary, and rising up behind that was a swathe of feverfew: daisy-like heads nodding lazily in the gentle, meandering breeze. Using his Herbology knowledge, he knew the plants supported each other magically. Somehow, a plant could either support or diminish the magical potential of another. It was akin to weeds throttling plants or clover providing vital nutrients for the following crop. In this bed, the herbs supported each other...Neville couldn't think of a more powerful arrangement. But this wasn't used to supply the infirmary or the potions lab, and the house-elves would have no need to use such potent herbs in their cooking. Why would someone go to the trouble of tackling such a range of plants for an added magical benefit which was seemingly never used?

It was a puzzle. The thought caused a smile to curve his lips:just like the head of the house it represented. He knew the gathered plants all related to the mind...soothing and enhancing its power...and memory. They were all tied to intellect and keeping it in balance... and Severus Snape was all about the mind and its power. A shiver danced down his spine as his mind dallied over some of the lessons he'd had with Snape...recalling the man's words, his voice... his eyes.

He idly stroked the leaves, feeling the varied textures beneath his sensitive fingers. As the stems bowed under his caress, he saw something glittering in the dark soil. Frowning, he delved between the leaves and flicked aside the soil. Slowly, a phial emerged from the earth. Not just any phial. This was a needle phial. It was much smaller than the common phials used in potions and for holding medical draughts; it was as about as wide as the shaft of a quill and as long as his little finger.

He whistled at the sight, gently wiping small clods from its smooth surface. Such a thing was expensive, and to find one lost in the dirt was almost shocking...but not as shocking as the contents. Inside, something shimmered. It held a memory: how apropos in a garden for the mind.

~X~

The water was glorious as it ran down his body in hot soothing rivulets. He closed his eyes and relished the water pummelling his shoulders before caressing his skin. Slowly, tense and aching muscles began to unknot and relax. His mind soon followed suit, but he knew his thoughts would gather together like spilt mercury, running into a poisonous mass as soon as he left his cocoon. But for right now, he used the water to wash away his woes and dreads. He needed this to help restore balance.

The bathroom was chilly, so he hastily wrapped a towel around his waist and slipped into his bedroom where a fire crackled and popped amiably. Despite the warmth drying his skin, he wished he could towel himself dry and dress quickly, but his limbs felt heavy, and even the smallest of movements made him ache. Was this how it felt to be old? The thought depressed him. He hadn't hit middle-age, and yet he felt weaker than Dumbledore had ever looked. To be old for the majority of one's life seemed cruel.

With his shirt and trousers on, he threw off his mood and settled into the soft chair in his parlour and lifted up the little black book that Neville had temporarily gifted him. The feel of it, the smell of it, the weight of it reassured him, and deep in his gut, something stirred pleasurably. This coming year held more promise than the last ten combined. Inhaling deeply, he sank into the cushion and began to read the immaculate notes again.

A gentle chime interrupted his reading, reminding him that in an hour Hagrid would be leading the new first-years up to the castle for the Great Feast, and since it was his duty to greet them before they joined the rest of the school, he was required to check that everything was in its proper place and the older years were escorted to the Great Hall. Slipping the book back between seat and chair arm, he hauled himself up and plucked his frock coat from its back.

The Entrance Hall was silent when he arrived and took up his post on the stairs. A cold wind played by the open doors, scattering a few dead leaves that had drifted in. Above him, the stairs creaked as they resettled into new positions after the other students had descended to enter the Hall; he could hear them talking and rekindling friendships beyond the closed doors. It was like the dull roar of a distant waterfall. His thoughts lingered over Neville and Rhine sitting at the High Table, experiencing the onslaught of students for the first time.

A smile tugged at his lips; the onslaught was fast approaching: he could hear the crunching of feet upon gravel and Hagrid's booming voice hurrying them along. Within minutes, they poured in, filling the available space, their heads spinning wildly in the effort to see everything.

"Now, this 'ere is the entrance 'all," Hagrid said, instantly quietening them. "An' this is where I leave ye. Professor Snape is the deputy 'eadmaster, an' he'll be lookin' afters yer from now on."

With a nod of his great, shaggy head, he shuffled out, careful not to catch any of the children, some of whom pressed into their peers to get out of his way, their eyes wide and reflecting so many emotions...fear being one of them.

Snape let them mutter between themselves, scanning the group for any signs of burgeoning animosity, but from his vantage point, he could see nothing extraordinary. Slowly, he began to descend the stairs, emerging from the shadows and suffocating their hushed conversations. They were facing Snape. Their parents had trembled and recounted terrible stories of detentions and lessons with him. Even the pure-bloods looked pale and uneasy. It was a peculiar kind of inherited knowledge, and Snape had no intention of disabusing them of their ideas regarding the Greasy Git.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," he intoned solemnly, letting his dark gaze sweep over the attentive crowd. "I am Professor Snape, Deputy Headmaster of this school." He paused, allowing this dire information to settle in their brains. His physical presence often crystallised a rather vague impression into a much... sharper one. To his satisfaction, some of them shuffled away.

"In a few moments, you will be allowed through those doors..." he said, waving a hand gracefully in their direction, "... and into what will become your home for the time you are here. In the Hall, you will be Sorted into your houses. You will not dishonour your house in any manner, or you shall have to deal with your head of house... or me." Their wide eyes flickered from his face to the doors and back again. "Live up to the expectations of this school, and your house and you will do well here."

As he spoke the last dictum, he stepped back towards the door and hammered on it twice, the sound rebounding grandly in the hall. Without so much as a creak, the doors opened inwards, slowly revealing the splendour of the Great Feast. Behind him, dozens of gasps unified into one overwhelmed sigh. He turned and glowered, killing their gasps in their throats.

"Up ahead is your Headmistress, Professor McGonagall. You will walk in silence and stand before her. The Headmistress will call out your name, and you will be Sorted." He watched them as they absorbed his words. When he heard the soft sound in his ear, he knew Minerva was ready for them. He straightened and stepped aside, waving them through. Slowly, cautiously, they entered the Hall.

~X~

Neville sat at the end of the table, next to Pomona. She had shared much of her time talking and laughing with professor Flitwick and flashing him reassuring glances, but when the main doors opened and the influx of black-clad children began, she and the others shifted from...for want of a better expression... people to teachers. As the students entered, brimming with energy and bringing with them a tremendous wave of noise, he felt butterflies swarm in his guts. This was it!

He looked along the table towards Randall. He was...selfishly...disappointed to see him sitting with all the confidence of the veteran teachers. Settling back, Neville watched Minerva place the stool on the dais...how long ago had he sat on that very stool?...and pick up the brown, wrinkled Sorting hat. After what felt the length of a heartbeat, the Headmistress called the room to order and the main doors opened again. On the threshold, he could make out the shapes of the new intake, standing hesitantly. Off to the side, he saw Snape usher them in. They were so small! Had he been that small once? He certainly must have looked as flustered and... lost.

Despite his nerves, the evening passed quickly, interspersed with cheers as new housemates were welcomed, announcements, and a feast to rival those of his youth. He was mildly surprised to find his goblet filled with pumpkin juice rather than something more mature, but he found that it soothed him. Besides, he wasn't a big fan of wine. The familiarity of it was a balm to his unsettled mind. How could he not be content here...he knew this place... for good and bad, he knew he could belong here.

It was quite late when the last of the students left to their dormitories, and Neville felt sleep tugging at his eyelids. Pomona was the first to leave, wishing them all luck and a good night. She saved a warm smile for Neville and patted him on his shoulder before slipping away. To his left, Snape and Minerva were talking quietly with each other. He wasn't sure whether he should just leave or if there was some unknown etiquette to it. To idle away the indecisive moment, he watched Snape's pale face.

The eyes that had been so hard and cold when he had been a student had softened somewhat. The mouth that had always been compressed and tight was relaxed and smooth, curving up into rare fleeting smiles as he spoke. His nose was still the same, but it didn't look as hooked or as... big. He'd lost some weight off his face, making him appear a bit too gaunt at times, but when he smiled, he looked...Neville coughed around his mouthful of pumpkin juice. Had he really just thought that Snape looked... good?

Thankfully, his choking fit passed unnoticed, and he hoped the same could be said for his flush. Taking another sip to help the previous one down, he decided he'd just go and sleep off whatever delusion he was experiencing. He knew he'd been working too hard in the run-up to the school opening, and he was now paying the price. Herbology was first thing in the morning, and he wanted to get some sleep before he faced his first class. For the time being, the small phial was forgotten.

Snape had felt eyes on him all evening. Some came from the new Slytherins, glancing up at their new head of house, wondering if they'd gotten the better deal; some from the old Slytherins, wondering if he'd be as strict as last year. Some had come from the other tables, but mainly, they had come from Neville. Snape thought back on their experiences as teacher and pupil, and he felt chilled. Had Hogwarts reminded Neville of how it had been? Was this the start of a burgeoning and devastating animosity? He knew he'd resign before allowing a crack to develop between the teachers. Hogwarts was too important an entity to suffer the egos of two teachers. A mouthful of pumpkin juice helped to smother the burning dread climbing up his gullet.

Minerva must have either sensed or seen his moment of unease because she began drilling him with a stare and asked him what he thought about the new pupils. Knowing Minerva, she probably assumed he had a default emotional state...depressed and bitter...and worked to change it whenever he slipped into it. He inhaled slowly; she was probably just saving time by not bothering to ask how he felt. She was right, in her way. His injury and bond to the Ministry were instigators of grief and misery, but secreted between their crushing influences, he was generally content. Bitterness didn't rule him, and the reason for his thoughtfulness and sombre mood over dinner was Neville.

Neville's curious glances had been... disturbing, and more so because he couldn't determine why he found them to be disturbing. Perhaps it was the shift from one relationship to another? After all, this was the first time a former student of his had joined the High Table. He could still remember Neville as the nervous, clumsy boy who had never succumbed to his fear, but never ousting it either. He had existed in a state of perpetual anxiety, doing what he had to do, and although that merely entailed being in a lesson, Snape had quietly, very quietly, admired the boy for his depth of character. Neville had lost that anxiety during his final year, tempering it into an unbreakable weapon. He had twisted his fear into anger. And it had been magnificent.

When Neville choked on his juice, Snape had snatched the opportunity to study him. It was undeniable that he had developed into a handsome young man, and a fascinating one at that...those whispered snippets shared by Pomona and his own fleeting glimpses into his memories attested to it. In the mountains, Neville's imagination and strength of character had undeniably impressed and affected him... as had Neville's collapse and nightmare.

While Severus spared Minerva half an ear, he pondered Neville, realising that he had enjoyed the quiet chats and the time with him. Neville had made him feel some of the strength and power he had experienced an age ago. He knew he couldn't deny that the urge to help Neville was based on selfishness, but now he wondered if something else had been prodded into life at Neville's passionate plea for help.

Minerva harrumphed, and he immediately focused on her with an innocent expression.

"Don't give me that," she clipped. "I know you weren't listening...I teach too, remember?" She sniffed disdainfully and turned to pluck up her goblet. "I know the look."

Severus smiled warmly and leant back, using her hat to block out the source of his distraction. His gaze swept over the hall and the merry detritus that was the end of the Great Feast: paper streamers, cake wrappers, piles of food, empty cups. It was a joyous mess. To his left, he heard a few of his peers mutter sleepily and saunter away to their beds...they loved this as much as the students, but good food tended to go straight to their eyelids.

The sounds, the food, the good company helped to alleviate the stress and horror that had smothered him merely a day ago...it seemed so far away now. He cast Minerva a quick glance; he owed her his life, his soul, his peace of mind. It would have been impossible to survive this if she hadn't extended her hand all those years ago. On impulse, he reached out and clasped her hand, gently squeezing it.

The feel of his hand made her jolt and want to turn to him, but she held herself still, knowing in some way that he would release it if she moved. His fingers tightened and her heart lurched deep in her chest. Warmth flooded her just as tears stung her eyes, and fierce love rose up, thundering down her veins. Slowly, as if turning to face a timid deer, she swung her gaze upon him. There was a fragility in those dark depths, as if this were more terrifying for him than confessing a sin. Her earlier instinct was proved right, and he flinched, trying to draw his hand away, but she placed her other hand on top of his, returning the subtle sign of affection.

It was wonderful to see him relax and smile awkwardly. She mentally scooped up the memory, cradling and cherishing it. And then his warm hand was gone, and he was standing, preparing to leave.

"Goodnight, Minerva."

"Goodnight, Severus."

Author's Notes: Many thanks to Falconfalmorgan for her amazing advice and attention to detail.