Meaningful Mentoring

The lesson turned just after the plant had sojourned down his trouser leg. Surrounded by his laughing classmates, blushing and frustrated, Crabbe also turned. Neville, who hadn't found the whole thing amusing, had watched Crabbe carefully, so he'd caught the emotions marching across his face. Shame and anger dominated the arena. Some would say that he should have ended it there and then, but hard lessons were sometimes the most valuable. So instead of rescuing Crabbe and scolding his classmates for their lack of generosity of spirit, Neville had stepped over to the struggling boy and whispered in his ear.

No one knew what he'd said, but Crabbe had straightened and relaxed. At first, it looked as though he'd been defeated, but then the plant had peeped out from under his hem and slowly pulled itself up towards his hip. The class watched with a mix of bitter amusement and expectant interest as the small bundle of leaves nuzzled his hand and crawled into it. Crabbe seemed more surprised than anyone, letting out a shocked laugh. And then, Crabbe had become the teacher, taking centre-stage in the lesson.

The boy had seemingly tamed the mini hosta, and he made the flowers sway and dance. He even made them have a mock battle...much to the delight of the boys. The girls had 'ahhed' and 'ooohed' when he'd somehow managed to get the petals to move as though blowing a kiss. He coaxed the bundle of roots and leaves across the table, asking it to do tricks like a gentle puppy, and he'd sought mild revenge against those two Slytherins who had mocked him, making them clamber up on their stools for safety as his plant snapped and scurried after them. It had been a good lesson, even if the original objectives hadn't been met.

Herbology was the last lesson of the day, so Neville was able to ask Crabbe to stay behind after class. Pomona tactfully busied herself with the seedlings in the store room, but Neville knew she would be listening carefully.

Neville sat opposite Crabbe and slid an empty mug towards him. When Crabbe looked up, he lifted up the small teapot and waggled his eyebrows. A small frown momentarily ousted his moody expression, but then he nodded slowly.

"Milk? Sugar?"

"Yes... two, please."

The sound of tea being poured and the clink of spoon against crockery filled the awkward silence.

"I neglected to mention to the class that the strength of the hosta's response is proportional to the strength of the wizard."

Crabbe almost spilt tea down his front when he lifted his head in surprise, but the feeling was almost instantly squashed beneath some deeply held... sentiment. Neville took a careful sip, feeling a corresponding despair...why did Crabbe think it impossible that he was strong? Bullies tended to feel powerless and weak, terrorising their peers in a bid to feel strong.

"If I'd known of your strength, I wouldn't have... volunteered you," he added. Behind his cup, Crabbe looked pained. "Your patience with the class afterwards was also quite admirable, and I..."

"Stop it!

Neville reared back as Crabbe leapt to his feet and leaned over the table. He was prepared for the sulking and the moodiness, but the pained anger was something quite unexpected.

"Just give me the detention and let me go," Crabbe added tonelessly, returning to his seat and curling up around his tightly held midriff. In the strained silence, Neville studied the tense boy while Crabbe focused on his spilt tea creeping across the wooden bench top.

"I had no intention of giving you a detention." At his words, another perplexed frown flittered across Crabbe's face before fading into nonchalance. "But if you want one, you can help me weed the mini hosta bedding area later this evening." The sheer scale of Crabbe's apathy rankled Neville, and he'd spoken more tersely than he'd intended. The proposed punishment and Neville's tone caused the boy to pale and close his eyes. The shattering of his indifference softened Neville's response. "Or you can volunteer to help me harvest tentacular thorn?"

Crabbe fidgeted then looked up, careful to keep his emotions from his face. "But that's seventh-year stuff," he said with a sneer, although it lacked confidence and quickly slunk away.

"It is," Neville confirmed gently. "But it also takes someone with a particular skill...many seventh-years don't have it... and Madam Pomfrey will no doubt tan my hide if all my seventh-year Herbology students get sent to her."

Crabbe was intelligent, and Neville was not exaggerating the fact that the boy had some skill and power...even Pomona had been impressed. He had been fascinated by the way the flowers had danced and weaved around Crabbe, nipping hard enough to sting, but also being... playful. And the plant had moved fast! In the hands of any other student, he was sure the plant would have just lazily swayed... in the case of Crabbe's two associates, it would have most likely wilted. But for Crabbe, the flowers had waltzed and played.

Neville cleaned up the tea and righted the upset mug. "Do you like Herbology?" Crabbe twitched his shoulders in answer and Neville rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm not going to give you a detention, but I will ask you to help me harvest those thorns...Sunday at eight in the morning, outside Hagrid's hut." There was another non-committal shoulder twitch, which Neville accepted as confirmation. "You can go."

Crabbe stood quickly and rushed to the door, but a silhouette caused him to slow and swagger. Neville glanced across and saw two girls peer around the doorframe; he grinned even as he pretended not to listen.

"Hi," Crabbe said rather suavely, but Neville caught the uncertain undertows. Barely an hour ago, the girls wouldn't have given him the time of day, yet they now clustered around him.

"What did Longbottom want?" asked one of them shyly.

"Oh, he gave me a detention," Crabbe answered blithely.

"Oh that's harsh," uttered one of them with a mix of awe and sympathy.

Neville's grin widened, and he cast them a quick glance as they walked away; one of the girls had linked his arm. Things were looking up for Crabbe, and all it took was a tetchy plant that knew his soft spots.

Pomona appeared at his elbow. "That was lucky, Neville," she said, the slightest hint of reproach: it could have gone terribly wrong. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to her, seeing her wide grin. "But well done, you!"

He smiled back. "Thank you."

"Keep an eye on Phineas, will you?"

"Of course," he replied firmly. "The tentacular is fairly sleepy this time year due t..."

"No," she butted in. "I mean, Phineas seems to have listened to you, which is something he hasn't done with any of us in a long time. He's hurting." She shrugged and inhaled slowly. "No one has been able to offer him anything to ease it."

Neville frowned and thought back on the hosta's response... it had been vicious, but it had also been... mischievous. The flower had picked up on his pain and desire for some salve to his wounds. It had lashed out and attempted to soothe.

"Oh, and your mentor meeting is scheduled for Saturday."

~x~

He collapsed on the bed, groaning and feeling like he'd ran a marathon, battled a dragon and been put under a Full Body Bind. His muscles ached and resisted all attempts to move. It had taken ten minutes to massage life back into his hand after his mammoth marking session, and he needed to arrange having his things left in the store room so he wasn't rushing between the main staff room and his greenhouses. Teaching was hard work!

After his first full week, he was exhausted and had resolved to: buy a Dicta-quill; learn voice-enhancement charms (his throat felt raw); find a short-cut from the greenhouses to the Great Hall (there had to be one because he couldn't imagine Pomona legging it across the lawns to get to lunch on time for duty); and he'd have to learn relaxation techniques, otherwise his blood pressure would hit critical. Despite it all, a smile bloomed on his face; not even the thought of his impending mentor meeting could curb it. It was also selfishly gratifying to see Randall looking as overwhelmed and knackered.

His clock chimed six... almost dinner, but he'd been excused eating in the Great Hall; apparently, only senior teachers and heads of houses were required to attend all evening meals. Rolling on his side, he sleepily wondered who would become head of Hufflepuff. The scuttlebutt was that Aurora Sinistra would take over; he knew from recollections of his fifth-year that she exemplified the qualities of hard work and perseverance: her homework had been monstrous. The memory of it was enough to enhance his drowsiness, and his mind began to follow his muscles into oblivion.

His eyelids had almost closed when a thought elbowed its way past his fatigue: the phial! It was better than Pepper-up, and he sat bolt upright, his legs swinging off the bed and his feet dragging him over to his desk. The phial sat where he'd left it, catching the candlelight and shimmering like a precious gold ingot. He sat down and gently stroked the smooth glass, wondering who to take it to. Filch dealt with lost property, but something about it made him baulk at the idea. Perhaps Flitwick... or McGonagall? A gentle push sent it rolling in a soft arc. No one had reported it as missing... Something as valuable as a crystal needle phial? Did they know it was missing? It came to a stop, gently rolling on its curved edge, innocently denying him the answers to his questions.

"If you were mine, I'd keep you close and safe... I'd check you were there every five minutes." He sat back and glared at it as if it was deceiving him. "Something as expensive as you would be reported missing...you're what? Fifteen galleons?" On impulse, he slid his wand free and cast a few simple spells. The magic glimmered over the glass, changing colours like the aurora, and then popped out like burned-up whiskey on a Christmas pudding. "But what's inside is priceless, eh?"

The spells had highlighted a number of protective charms; someone had taken pains to protect it and the contents. Judging by the volume, this was a very short memory indeed... perhaps mere seconds from someone's life. But whose? He knew he should have trundled to McGonagall and handed it over.... He should have at least thought about letting someone know, but for some reason, he plucked it from the desk and secreted it carefully in his drawer.

~x~

Snape still had the same office, but the office wasn't the same. Last time he'd been in it, strange jars and hanging plants had festooned the shelves, adding beautifully to the atmosphere. Now, the shelves were almost bare and held only the most basic...and boring...of ingredients and supplies. The closest thing to that cultivated gloom and doom of his school days was a spider slowly weaving its web between rafter and top shelf.

Snape hadn't arrived, but the door had opened at his touch, so he had... sauntered in. Combined with the difference in decor, he was feeling...paradoxically...unnerved. Inexplicably, he felt he was privy to the destruction of a work of art... that he was mourning the passing of something magnificent. His eyes moved slowly over the wreckage of his memories, and he knew why he felt as he did. This reflected the change in Snape; it was so reminiscent of the hostas...where the plant echoed emotions, this room reflected Snape's... reduction, diminishment.... He shivered. It was cold and empty... devoid of anything to make it belong.

"Don't bother getting comfortable," a smooth voice uttered from behind, "we're not staying here."

Neville gratefully turned and saw Snape silhouetted in the doorframe. Tucking his paperwork under his arm, he gladly left the hollow office and slipped past his mentor into the corridor. When the door closed and locked with stuttering clicks, Snape glided off, pulling Neville like a tug towards their venue.

After a series of twists and turns and down some steps Neville was sure were new, they came to a doorframe embedded in a stone wall... but with no apparent door. Snape placed his palm where the doorknob should be and muttered something. At his words, the stonework writhed and slowly took upon a wooden effect, finally shifting into something that looked very much like a door. With a muted pop, the knob burst from the surface, waggled around like a cat getting comfortable, then settled down to its job.

Snape grabbed and twisted the handle, pushing on the door with his shoulder. Neville followed Snape, and he found himself in a beautiful room. Five tall and arched leaded windows surrounded him, casting a wonderful clean and crisp light upon a pentagonal table and five chairs. To his left, a fire popped and crackled in a stone fireplace, its light reflecting off the rich, warm wood and the twinkling chandelier above the table. Snape slid his paperwork onto the table and swept round the room to a trolley nestled under the far window. Curious, Neville followed his mentor. On the trolley were cups, saucers, side dishes and an urn with complicated brass pipes that could only mean it had something to do with coffee. Beneath the other three windows, there were cherry-wood filing cabinets. Oddly, there were no bookcases; this would make a perfect reading room. It didn't strike him until he moved to stand by the table that Snape had taken him down deeper into the castle...which would have surrounded this room completely.

"Take a seat," Snape suggested while he gathered cups and saucers. "Coffee?"

Neville smiled and nodded. "Yes, thanks," he replied, hiding his surprise, before sitting down on the high-backed and cushioned chair. "Is this a new Room of Requirement?" he asked.

The dark man frowned and glanced across at him. "In a manner of speaking," he replied tonelessly. "We required it, so we constructed it. It's a therapy suite."

Neville frowned. The way he had accentuated the word 'therapy' made it sound as though Snape hated the idea. Before he could question him, he'd turned back to the brass piping and conducted a series of complicated actions to get steam billowing and a black liquid pouring from a slender spout.

"St Mungos devised them and oversaw their construction," he continued calmly after placing two cups on the table. "It was deemed necessary after the Great Battle."

"You disagree?"

Snape looked across, his gaze sharp and indecipherable. Neville shivered and hid his discomfort behind a sip of his... cappuccino by the looks of it.

"They were necessary; thankfully in recent years, they've not been needed. We use them now to conduct meetings and mentor students, and they're perfect for less... formal agendas, such as impromptu potion-making."

Neville's scalp tingled. He'd almost forgotten... the last few days had almost nudged his need aside.

"We'll be working here?"

"Yes. Can you remember the way here?" At Neville's confident nod, Snape relaxed and sipped his own drink...which Neville noted was a black espresso. "Your mentor meetings will run as planned...Minerva needs documentation...so your free time will be incredibly limited." Neville's expression made it clear that lack of free time was immaterial. "And you must find a way to get here without detection. Once inside, you're protected by powerful charms and needn't concern yourself."

"I understand," he said firmly.

Snape nodded and pulled his file closer, scanning the reports from Pomona and his own reflections upon his progress so far. They discussed his lesson planning and his manner with the students; they glossed over Phineas, with Snape reiterating Pomona's request. In the long pauses, while Snape read and took notes, Neville reconsidered his once dreaded Potions professor.

Those eyes had seemed like the fires of hell when he'd been a student, scorching a hole through his soul, but now they were reminiscent of endless black nights. That mouth had uttered vile words and bitter accusations... but now it stretched and relaxed, forming words of encouragement and advice. Those hands had once moved aggressively through the air around him, but now they flowed languidly and gracefully.

Neville concluded that Snape was nothing like the man he'd once been. Something flickered deep in his gut when the image of Snape's office popped into his head. He risked a long stare at the man, wondering if he was as empty as his office, if something had ripped as much out of him. Is that why he suddenly found Snape interesting? Was it because he was weaker... less? Lost in thought, he had failed to hear Snape's question or see the flicker of annoyance cross his pale face.

"Longbottom!"

At the sound, Neville jerked back. The tone had resonated with his inner child, and part of him quailed, but another part perked up at the challenge. Satisfied that he had reacquired his attention, Snape continued... in a quieter, yet somehow more pointed manner.

There was still some power, some force within him, Neville realised, but something was damming it, containing it. His mind drifted off, thinking about the strength Snape would bring to his mission to save his parents: all that skill and focus... all that pent-up energy. Neville had the urge to stop Snape's prattle about pedagogue and learning theories; he felt himself thrum with the thrill of it. He wanted to grab him and haul him off to the potions lab, but Snape turned to him with a questioning look and one eyebrow arched. Instead, he reached out a trembling hand for his beverage: his mouth had gone quite dry for some reason.