Lost and Found

Randal didn't have much of an appetite, but as he'd been advised by Sinastra to show his face at the High Table from time to time, he tried to look as though the sausages and mash were appealing. The most frustrating thing was that he couldn't really identify why he was feeling glum. In fact, this was the first time in a long time that he'd made a pass at someone and they'd still talked with him afterwards; usually, they left in a cloud of dust... sometimes not even metaphorically. Neville was still being... nice and carrying on as though nothing had happened. He stabbed a piece of sausage and shoved it between his teeth, chomping down bitterly. Maybe if Neville had screamed and ran to the hills, he'd feel happier?

"If you carry on like that," Sinastra whispered gently in his ear, "you'll stab through the plate, get indigestion, or make the first-years cry."

He paused mid-saw and glanced down at his white knuckles gripping the cutlery. The muscles in his face suddenly felt tight, and he relaxed the scowl that had sneaked up and usurped his usual jolly expression. "Sorry," he mumbled, putting the knife and fork down and reaching for his pumpkin juice. He forced his shoulders down and breathed slowly, allowing his body to relax: he was so tense. Slowly, he calmed enough to offer her a sheepish smile.

"I didn't realise that I'd let it come to the surface," he muttered apologetically.

"It's difficult, but we can't let the students know that we have 'personal issues'," she said wryly before flashing him a grin and a wink. "However, if I were you, I'd cultivate that expression; should the higher years get out of hand, I can guarantee that your scowl will have them as meek as kittens in no time."

The laugh rumbled in his chest, ousting the last of his confused and heavy feelings. "I'll keep that in mind."

They chatted amiably until the last of the students left the hall, where Sinatra wished him a good night and hauled herself to her feet, cupping her lower back as the weight of her baby shifted. He smiled at the lovely curve of her belly; he could understand why so many wanted to place their hands on it. Inside there was a life... a pure and magical mystery. Perhaps it was the closest people could come to feeling a portion of the gloriousness of life?

He idled at the table, allowing himself to reconnect with the atmosphere he'd avoided. It eased him further. There were far more important things to concern himself with than his paranoia over Neville's understanding. He let out a wry chuckle. Why was he even seeing it as something to worry about? Couldn't he meet someone who was simply... nice?

After draining his goblet, he looked across at his friend. Neville was deep in conversation with Snape, and by the way his eyes narrowed and his hand waved through the air, they were talking about something more provocative than teaching. Snape's face was turned away, but there was a tension across the older man's shoulders. After a few tight-lipped words, Neville glanced away and shook his head stiffly. Snape threw his napkin down and rose to his feet in a languid move, as though nothing but professional banter had passed between them, and slipped away.

When Neville left the table, Randal followed and caught him up in the corridor leading to the teachers' staffroom. His approaching footsteps alerted Neville, who turned with a frown on his face. His expression slowed Randal's progress, but when the features lifted into a smile, he almost skipped over to his side.

"It's been a hard few weeks, hasn't it?" Randal began, seeing the tension and some unknown frustration twisting Neville's features into a scowl similar to the one he must have terrorised the first-years with over dinner.

"Tell me about it," Neville agreed, turning and continuing to the staffroom. "I ache all over...how does that work?"

Randal laughed. "Have you taken note of just how far you have to walk around this castle... and do you sit down when you teach?"

"No, I never even thought about sitting...I can't remember Professor Sprout ever sitting."

Randal nodded. "There you go then."

Neville smiled and opened the staffroom door for Randal, and they slipped inside. Aside from two dozing wizards, nestled up a corner, the room was empty, and they had pick of the better chairs. They'd been amused at the hierarchy in the staffroom. Some chairs seemed to unconsciously belong exclusively to certain teachers: for instance, no one sat in Snape's or McGonagall's chair, even when they were absent from the castle. But the other, soft leather chairs were open to claim on a first-come first-served basis.

With a contented sigh, Randal slipped into the soft confines of a chair close to the fire and fought the urge to toe his shoes off. The meal sat delightfully heavily in his stomach, tugging on eyelids and slowly smothering him ready for sleep. It was Friday night, and all he could think about was collapsing. Where was that energy that had once pulled him out to commit mischief? Next to him, Neville was still wrapped up in something unpleasant.

"When's the next holiday?" Randal asked hopefully.

"Christmas," Neville answered with a moan.

"I'll never survive."

Neville laughed and looked across at Randal sitting sleepily in the dark leather chair. The firelight caught his face, turning his hair into liquid bronze and darkening his eyes. The words he'd planned to speak melted on his tongue, and he found himself wondering, for the merest moment, if he'd actually been that shocked about Randal's drunken... offer. He swallowed hard and wondered if it was wrong of him to not have been that shocked. He frowned and glanced back at the dancing flames. Was there even a scale to weigh up the appropriateness of his response? Too shocked and he was a bigot, not shocked enough and he was unconsciously interested? It was confusing, and his brain was of no help.

Either way and whatever it implied, the frustration and anger that flowed through him was drying up. With chagrin, he realised his argument over dinner with Snape had been more about himself than the task. But the eagerness to begin had welled up within him ever since Snape had shown him the room, and now he felt as though it strained to escape, pushing against his skin, leaving him breathless and giddy. He wanted to begin; he wanted to feel the ingredients beneath his fingers and make something spectacular.

Severus had been less enthusiastic, citing a myriad of inconsequential reasons for delaying until the holidays. In the cosy confines of the staffroom, he realised the wisdom of waiting, and he inwardly groaned at the prospect of meeting Snape tomorrow for the mentor meeting. He could imagine Snape's satisfaction on hearing his apologetic acquiescence. Another feeling bobbed to the surface; Snape had looked haggard, not that you would have noticed unless you had the advantage of sitting next to him, and he'd pestered until Snape had chosen...perhaps been forced...to leave. Closing his eyes, Neville sank into the cushions, feeling a complete bastard and not knowing how to remedy it.

He was saved from trying to solve his dilemma by the door opening and Pomona walking in with a dark frown. When her eyes landed on him, her gaze hardened, and she strode over. "Neville, Randal," she said crisply. "We have a missing student, and your skills are needed."

Any fatigue fled, and they sprang to their feet, instantly alert. "Who is it?" Randal demanded.

"Selina Babcock: a first-year Gryffindor."

Neville groaned quietly: it had to be a Gryffindor...the other houses were either too sensible or the ones convincing Gryffindors to do stupid things. He wondered if a Slytherin was involved in some way.

"Randal, if you could help Aurora look in the Astronomy Tower and rooms, then that will be most helpful." Randal nodded and swept away. "Neville, if you could help Hagrid and Filius search the forest's perimeter?"

"Of course," he said quickly, eager to help, before speeding down the corridor to the entrance hall.

Hagrid and Flitwick were waiting on the edge of the looming forest, Hagrid looking hassled and Flitwick bouncing on his feet, obviously desperate to begin. Fang...Fang junior...sat at Hagrid's large feet, with slender, glistening drool stalactites indicating his excitement. When Neville clattered to a halt before them, Flitwick nodded and turned on his heel, leading them towards the towering, woody sentinels. Fang gave a low 'whumph' and padded after Hagrid. Clutching the stitch at his side, Neville gave Fang an answering sympathetic groan and followed. At the first junction, Flitwick went to the right, leaving the left to Hagrid and Neville.

They travelled in silence; Fang occasionally paused to sniff the air, only to shake his head, whine and continue with his heavy head low to the ground. The low-lying mist licked at his muzzle and paws as he ploughed onwards, seeking the girl's scent.

"It's a cold night fer a young'un to be out," Hagrid sighed. "I'm 'opin' that Pr'fessor Flitwick is right an' she's still up at the castle."

"Did someone see her come down here?" Neville asked, shoving his lucky hand in his pocket while waving his illuminated wand into every dark nook and cranny.

"Someone over'eard 'er talki' 'bout comin' down 'ere to prove 'er worth as a witch." Hagrid suddenly stopped dead, holding his breath and craning his neck to see into a thick web of criss-crossing limbs and roots. "Seems that she 'ad an idea she weren't a good enough witch to be at 'Ogwarts." With a disgusted growl, he straightened and carried on. "Thought I'd seen somethin', then."

"Who gave her that ridiculous notion?" Neville asked bitterly, his mind dredging up his own feelings of immense inadequacy in his first year at Hogwarts.

"Dunno," Hagrid answered simply. "Sometimes, I reckon ye can just sort o' convince yerself o' such rubbish."

They continued on in silence, startling at any sound and searching for any sign of the earth being recently disturbed, until the thing niggling at Neville's mind grabbed his tongue.

"Hagrid?"

"Yes, pr'fessor."

"Why don't we call out for her?"

Hagrid paused and wiped a finger under his nose. "Sorry, I shoulda realised that yer'd never done a search in 'ere before." His black eyes darted over the path and slowly, almost reluctantly, turned to rest on Neville's.

"There's thing's in these woods that're smart enough to know when we're lookin' fer someone. We call out, we get an answer... well that gives them a target. Ye scream in 'ere, and it ain't just a friend that 'ears ye an' comes runnin'."

Neville shuddered and crouched defensively against the dark and leering landscape. "So... we don't yell out." His eyes bored into the shadows, and his breath blossomed before him like smoke. He imagined a thousand eyes on him, while he was struck blind.

"When we finds 'er, we send up a flare."

"But how do we find her?" Neville whined, feeling the cold bite and the gloom smother him. "This forest is huge!"

"We 'ave Fang," Hagrid said proudly, giving the hairy mutt a friendly slap. "'E may not be as big as 'is dad, but 'e's good at sniffin' out what needs findin'. And Pr'fessor Flitwick 'as a Locater Charm."

"Shouldn't we have stuck together?"

"Nah!" Hagrid said, shaking his bushy head. "Take too long if we didna split up. When they've done the rooms up in the castle, the other pr'fessors will come down 'ere an' 'elp."

Neville nodded, and he hoped Flitwick was better than whatever should come skulking out of the shadows. He swallowed; he hoped that he and Hagrid were better than whatever they met!

"Besides, we're only on the edge," Hagrid added soothingly. "Not much 'ere to bother ye."

Neville missed a step. Just what did Hagrid consider to be only a 'bother'? He shuddered at the thought of meeting something that would fall into a category above.

Their search pattern brought them to another fork. Hagrid peered at it and then looked at Fang. The boarhound whined, huffed and then promptly fell to his stomach.

"I don't think she's anywhere near here," Neville declared exhaustedly. It wasn't the walking; it was the prolonged and excruciating focus. His head throbbed, and his eyes stung. "What could she do here that would prove her worth as a witch?"

Hagrid had no answer, but he nudged the dog with his boot and shooed him along the right-hand path, but Hagrid stopped after three strides, his shoulders drooping. "This way leads to where 'Arry met Him."

Neville stiffened at the emptiness in the half-giant's voice; he didn't need clarification of who 'Him' was. His eyes followed where Hagrid was looking and then snapped back. In the dim light, he couldn't quite see Hagrid's expression, but he thought he could work out dread and hopelessness: an echo of what he must have felt that day.

To his utmost relief, a red flare whistled up into the air and burst in the night sky. He had no desire to walk down to that place with Hagrid; he had enough of his own ghosts and terrible landscapes to haunt him.

"Hagrid," he called out gently. "Flitwick's got her; come on, let's go."

The giant gave a sniffle and a shudder. "Aye," he replied, beaming down at Neville. "'E'll be takin' 'er up to Madam Pomfrey."

They trudged back far happier; Fang seemed to share in the light-heartedness and gambolled around, stopping to chase his tail, then scampering ahead to toss up leaves.

"Look at 'im!" crooned Hagrid, smiling at the dog's antics. "Big softie, ain't 'e?"

Neville grinned and followed the pair back along the path, but he cast quick glances over his shoulder until he could see the subtle shift in light indicating the edge. Ferns whipped at their shins as they left the forest's leafy, cloying grip.

At Hagrid's hut, they parted company, and Neville trudged wearily to the castle. Without the trees that he'd hastily maligned, the wind was free to race around him, stealing what warmth he had and tugging maliciously on his coat. Grimacing, he pulled his coat closer and cast a charm to warm his chilled fingers. Not that it lasted long. He longed to sink into a warm bath and then under soft sheets. The mentor meeting was the last thing on his mind...although it niggled occasionally.

The entrance hall was empty when he finally slipped free of the tormenting wind, and he let his feet carry to his room. He smiled as he pondered that hierarchy again: students in their dormitories, the new teachers in their corridor, the teachers safely ensconced in their own private rooms. Or at least, he thought they were.

As the staircase shifted direction, he caught sight of a figure leaning against a wall on the upper floor. His fatigue evaporated, and he smacked the banister, hoping to convince the staircase to alter its motion. To his surprise and delight, the stairs complied. He raced up the last few steps, only to hesitate. He'd thought it was a student, out past curfew and up to mischief outside the girls' bathroom, but as he closed in, he recognised the outline. It was Snape.

Frowning and feeling anxious, Neville stepped closer, catching the sound of pained breathing. His throat! The horrid rasp spurred him on, and he hastened to the struggling man's side.

Snape looked dreadful: his eyes squeezed shut, and his trembling lips pulled back across a mouth held open in a grimace of pure pain. Sweat beaded his brow and ran down his temple. Pale skin was ashen grey, and he held his midriff as though he feared he would fall apart.

Neville swallowed hard, but he'd had to deal with enraged tentacular and the Whomping Willow, so he knew...at the very least...how to duck. He gripped Snape's bicep, and before the man could argue or respond, he tucked under his shoulder and pulled him close, wrapping his free arm around Snape's waist.

"Long...bottom, I do not... need your hel..."

"Of course not, Sir," he cut in smoothly. "I'm sure you'd find a student or another teacher much more helpful." In the gloomy corridor, Snape's eyes glittered, but without much venom...the man was close to collapse. "Now, where to?"

Bitterness, pain, fear swirled in the black depths, but after a few gasping breaths, Snape pointed along the corridor towards his personal supply cupboard. Puzzled, but not ready to question the professor's choice of destination, Neville took the man's weight and carried him forward.

At the door, Snape shuffled until he was free of Neville's assistance and waved his hand over the door knob. It twitched, and then the door clicked open to reveal neat rows of potion ingredients in their jars or hanging in bushels. Snape slipped inside, and Neville followed. It was quite cosy until the door closed behind them; then it became quite claustrophobic.

Snape muttered something, and Neville heard a series of clicks and whirs, ending with a heavy 'thunk'. Opposite him, the wall shifted, shuddered and then swung away, revealing a darkened space beyond. He may have felt obliged to let Snape venture in alone, but the wizard stumbled, and Neville felt his Gryffindor heritage kick in aggressively. He almost manhandled Snape through the opening and into... a very nice room.

While trying to take in every feature, Neville found a convenient armchair for Snape to collapse in with his shin, and amidst a few curses and moans, he settled Snape into the chair. Neville fell into a seat opposite and rubbed his leg: why on earth were shins so... sensitive?!

Trying to ignore Snape's weak smirk and the pain, he continued his quick perusal of what must be the potion master's personal quarters. A small fire popped and crackled to his left...pine, judging by the fresh fragrance in the air...and a walnut desk sat primly to his right. A few of Pomona's flowers glimmered above the desk, bathing it in creamy light, accentuating the animal skin appearance of the wood. He felt the urge to caress the smooth surface. His gaze travelled further round the room, catching three arched and leaded windows under which stood two chairs and a square dining table, then a wooden door and back to the fireplace. An oval low table squatted between the chairs, upon which a few books rested around the old, circular stains of many coffee cups. Aside from the elegant desk, it was just like Neville's room; he felt slightly disappointed... he'd expected something more esoteric.

"The desk..." Snape whispered hoarsely. "In the... desk."

That rasp brought his mind back to his current dilemma, and he almost leapt from the chair to seek what Snape needed so desperately. Only one part of the desk opened, and that was a wide section on the left. He opened the door and saw a leather box within.

"The... box."

Neville reached in and gently withdrew it. He straightened as he turned and almost fell to his knees to place it on the table before Snape. The wizard struggled to lean forward, but he waved away Neville's helping hands.

Trembling fingers bullied the latch, and then the lid opened. Inside, Neville could see several large phials...about the length of his hand and the width of his wrist. He frowned as Snape's pale fingers almost wrapped around one before the man gave a vicious snarl and jerked away, pulling a phial containing a blue liquid free from its velveteen slot. He downed it like his life depended on it.

Keeping his eyes on Snape's face as it twisted into pure loathing, Neville climbed back into the chair. He held his breath, wondering what was happening. The phial slipped from Snape's fingers so they could cup his face and hide the pain and despair.

Soon, stuttering gasps and breaths erupted from between those tight fingers, and Neville swallowed hard. He knew those sounds. He'd made them himself when everything had collapsed and his life lost meaning... when he realised the emptiness and futility of existence: when he needed pain to remind him that he was real and could still feel. It broke his heart.

Some part of him screeched that he should leave... that he'd be mortified if someone caught him in such throes of despair and emotional devastation; but another part, a quiet part that was usually lost in the melange of manic thoughts and emotions was whispering in his ear. How often had he secretly hoped for someone to find him and hold him.... to offer a light between himself and the dark place he was travelling through? He'd never had anyone... he'd made sure of that. But Snape... well, Snape had him.

Rising carefully from his chair, as though he knew any sudden movement would wake something terrible, he slowly crawled across to the trembling wizard. He could hear Snape's effort to contain it all, to keep it hidden from him... how his lungs and throat battled to keep the screams locked away. On inspiration, Neville cast a Silencing Charm around the room, recognising painfully how his spell struck one already in place.

Licking his lips and wiping his clammy palm on his trousers, he raised his arm and placed a gentle hand on Snape's arm. For the reaction he received, it may as well have been a white-hot brand. Snape jolted back, his wide dark eyes fixing upon the hand on his arm, and his teeth clenched until Neville swore he could hear his teeth cracking in their sockets.

"Severus..." he breathed. There was nothing, no flicker of acknowledgment. "What do you need?" Snape moaned and closed his eyes, letting his head loll back. "I'll get Pomfrey."

He tried to stand, but Snape had recovered enough to lunge forward and grip his shoulders, keeping him on his knees at Snape's side. The move had its consequence, and Snape's head fell forward onto Neville's shoulder. He could feel hot and rapid breaths and cold, slick sweat against his neck. Those thin fingers bit into his skin as if Snape hoped to leech some strength from his fleshy support.

"Not... Poppy," he hissed out.

Neville inhaled shakily at the sound and the sensation of Snape's lips moving over his skin. He felt overwhelmed and vulnerable. He didn't know how to deal with something like this. Snape was in agony, and he had no clue or skill to alleviate it. His own experience had led him to believe that it had to run its course, as a fever would burn through.

"Who?" he managed to croak out.

Snape shifted against him, almost falling into his arms. "No... one," came the mournful response. "Sleep."

Neville could cope with that. Sleep was good... it was simple. He stood, his thighs burning with the effort of lifting Snape with him. It wasn't as hard as he'd imagined: Snape was almost skin and bone. Together, they lurched and tumbled towards the door Neville had noted earlier. Neville caught the knob, twisted it and then kicked the door open. To his relief the bed was there... a few steps, and he could drop Snape into the soothing, linen arms of a good night's sleep.

He recalled how he'd woken months ago in a strange bed, the covers tucked up snug and thoughtfully around him. Wincing, he fumbled for his wand and used it to magic the covers down. Snape was in and out of wakefulness, his expression drifting between panic and pain and exhausted emptiness. Neville carefully lowered him onto the bed; he pulled off Snape's boots – which he noticed were caked in soft mud – and pulled the pale sheets and dark green blanket up around his shoulders.

His arms felt empty, and he crossed them over his chest. The whole evening had left him cold and fatigued... and confused. Feeling awkward and protective, he stood over the slumbering man as he mumbled and tossed, waiting for sleep to claim him. After what felt like an hour, Snape's breathing evened out and Neville felt at ease enough to leave his bedside.

The door swung shut softly behind him, and he padded over to the box of potions that Snape had been so eager to open. He couldn't determine anything from the glimmering phials, but his nose caught the soft scents of the potion Snape had gulped down so worryingly eagerly. For clarity, he picked up the empty phial and sniffed cautiously. His brow furrowed as he picked up the smells of a strong and all-too-familiar sleeping draught: Dreamless Sleep. Snape had craved mental oblivion... but why not an analgesic? The thought chilled Neville more completely than the forest and the wind had even hinted at. What tormented Snape's mind to the point that it physically pained him and made him desperate to attain ... nothingness?

Author's notes: many thanks to my patient and talented beta.