Part 2 of 2

Author's notes: Many, many thanks to my lovely beta, raisinous fiendling, without whom I couldn't have managed. She is the reason this story is coherent at all and the reason it has proper tenses and enough commas; all remaining mistakes are all mine.

It had been pouring the whole day, great big sheets of near torrential rain. Neville looked up at the glass roof of the greenhouse and the torrents of water that flowed down its inclined sides. He was hardly surprised; they had been very lucky with the amount of sunny weather they had had until now. It might be August, but they were in Scotland after all. Neville was ridiculously grateful to Malfoy for having finished Greenhouse One.

He had told him as much that morning as they took refuge under the glass shelter of the greenhouse. Malfoy had smiled smugly.

"Aren't you glad I persuaded McGonagall to let me help you?" he had said haughtily.

Before, Neville might have been annoyed by Malfoy's attitude, but he had got used to it surprisingly quickly. It was just the way Malfoy was built. He never just spoke; he was haughty, sarcastic, sneering, or sometimes melodramatic, theatrical, histrionic or even on occasion whining, petulant, pouting. Neville had learned to be amused by his posturing, whereas before he might have been irritated or offended.

"Yes, very," Neville had answered deadpan. "What would I have ever done without you?"

Despite the gleaming, new structure that surrounded it, the inside of Greenhouse One was quite a mess, apart from the small corner Sprout was slowly working on. The ground was covered in earth and broken pots that crunched underfoot and plants that lay strewn about.

After sweeping up the floor and depositing everything in neat piles, Neville had told Malfoy to repair all the broken pots, while he would do the re-potting.

"Longbottom, isn't there anything else you're good at besides Herbology?" Malfoy had sneered, quite predictably.

Neville had pretended to ponder it before answering innocently, "I have been told that I'm quite good with a sword as well."

Malfoy had given a surprised bark of laughter, and his gaze had become reluctantly impressed, before he turned round to get started on the pots.

Neville had smirked inwardly. He was also rather good at Care of Magical Creatures.

Neville picked up one of Malfoy's pots to re-pot the last Smoking Azalea. The pot was perfectly formed and looked deceivingly delicate. On one side, a simple decorative stamp stood out in relief. It was a minimal bouquet of tall grass, wheat and narcissi. It had made Neville smile when he noticed it; these little foibles of Malfoy's made him seem more human and approachable.

*

"I'm all finished," Malfoy drawled, sounding satisfied, the suddenness of the pronouncement making Neville jump.

Neville looked over his shoulder and gave Malfoy a half-hearted glare, which he only shrugged off with a smirk.

Giving a final pat to the newly potted Azalea, Neville turned around. "You can help me with the Puffapods," he said. "I've put them on the worktable to your left."

They quickly settled into a companionable silence, working side by side. Malfoy easily proved that he wasn't lying when he said he was good at Herbology. He cleaned out, re-potted and trimmed the Puffapods neatly and efficiently.

After finishing the first, he put it aside and reached out for another, getting the front of his light beige robe caught on a splinter and ripping it. Malfoy looked down at himself, his mouth twisting into an irritated moue, and took his wand out. Neville watched with interest as he waved the long slender wand in a simple movement and wordlessly fixed the rip.

"So is that the one?" Neville asked.

Malfoy looked over at him, confused. "What one?"

"The wand Harry used to kill Voldemort. He used your wand, didn't he?"

Malfoy appeared a bit embarrassed as he glanced away. "Yeah, this is the wand. Potter gave it back to me after my trial."

"That was decent of him," Neville pointed out.

"Yes, it was," Malfoy agreed grudgingly. "He even let me win it back." Neville raised his eyebrows sceptically. "He didn't try very hard, all right?" Malfoy retorted defensively. "And it's not as if it's that surprising, my being worse than the Saviour of the Wizarding World at dueling," he muttered sourly.

Neville chuckled. "There's nothing wrong with not being as good as Harry at dueling," he said. "I don't see why you hate him so much. Harry's an all right bloke. A bit oblivious and a bit of a one track mind, but essentially a decent bloke."

Malfoy looked around furtively before answering in a low voice. "I don't really hate Potter; I never actually did. It's a bit hard hating someone who pulled you out of a raging fire."

Neville frowned, perplexed. "In the Room of Hidden Things," Malfoy clarified. Upon seeing Neville's continued lack of understanding, he gave a theatrical sigh. "I assume Potter never told you about it."

And so, haltingly, Malfoy told him the whole story. How he remained in Hogwarts with his friends to look for Harry, hardly knowing why he was doing it. How when they finally cornered him with his two friends in the Room of Hidden Things, Malfoy was once more confronted with the fact that Harry was their best chance of liberation from the Dark Lord. How everything went terribly, terribly wrong. And how Harry saved him from certain death, but didn't manage to save his friend.

After finishing his story, Malfoy fell silent. He bent his head, letting a curtain of impossibly blond hair hide his suspiciously bright and wet eyes.

Not quite certain he was doing the right thing, Neville rested a large calloused hand on Malfoy's thin shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. Malfoy leaned back into the touch, so Neville let his hand linger, and they stood for a few frozen moments like that, attached at one point of contact.

Eventually, Malfoy lifted his head and gently shrugged Neville's hand off. He looked sideways at Neville and gave him an impish grin. "I bet I can do more Puffapods than you," he challenged.

Neville felt an unexpected laugh bubble up. "You're on!" he exclaimed, feeling uncharacteristically competitive.

~o~

Draco often wished he could erase the undesired memories of the past years. He had even asked his mother, but she had refused, insisting that the painful memories were necessary to help them remember their mistakes and make them stronger, better wizards. He had considered going to his father, but lately his father had stopped making important decisions without first consulting his wife.

And thus, unbidden and unwanted, the unpleasant, painful memories still came. One of the memories he most shied away from was that of Easter.

Seeing Potter and his friends in the manor had been shocking. He had hardly known what to do. Improbable as it was, Potter was their best hope for freedom. So he had done what he seemed to be so good at: nothing. When Potter had escaped, for a brief moment he had been glad and hopeful. Hopeful that if Potter could concoct such a daring and unexpected escape from the manor, he might actually have a chance of defeating the Dark Lord.

But that brief moment of tentative rejoicing had been over all too soon. The Dark Lord returned. With the Dark Lord's return came pain and suffering that Draco recoiled from, whole days he tried his best to black out of his memory.

Thankfully the ordeal had eventually ended, and he had been allowed to return to Hogwarts. As soon as he had returned to the castle, Snape had called him to his office. And for once Draco had sat there, silent, head bowed. For once Draco didn't have anything to say, didn't want to say anything. All he had wanted was to forget and for it to be finally over.

After looking his fill, Snape had gotten up to loom over him. He had retrieved two vials of potion from his pocket.

"Drink," he had ordered quite simply.

And Draco had obeyed without hesitation, trusting Snape implicitly. The first potion was a mild sedative and painkiller and the other a general restorative. Snape had then silently reclaimed his vials and handed Draco a jar of ointment.

"Use it liberally once a day for as long as necessary," he had explained.

"Thank you, sir," Draco had managed to choke out, his voice hoarse and breaking. He had then hidden his face in his hands.

Snape had stood looming over him for long minutes as Draco tried to compose himself. At some point Snape had stretched out his hand as if intending to touch Draco or stroke his hair. But his hand had stalled. Draco had been able to feel it, just a hair's breadth away from his head. He had begun shaking, overcome with a tidal wave of irrational longing. He had wanted nothing more than for Snape to touch him, to hold him. He hardly knew what he wanted from Snape; all he knew was that he wanted something.

But Snape had moved away and had sat once more behind his desk. And after a while Draco had pulled himself together. He had thanked Snape once more and had quickly left to take refuge in his dorm, his emotions and desires a whirlwind of confusion.

By the time Draco had worked out what he had wanted from Snape, it was too late. Snape was dead. And now Draco was left with his new-found understanding and no one to share it with. Above him the plum tree shivered and murmured, keeping him company and holding his secrets. Draco patted the ground next to him, thinking of the stolen treasure he was sitting on. Would he ever find the fortitude to look at it properly? He wanted to share it with someone else, but Longbottom was the only candidate who came to mind. And no matter the unanticipated understanding and easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them, Draco wasn't ready to trust yet.

~o~

Neville sat on a stile by the main entrance to Hogwarts' grounds, waiting for Malfoy to be delivered into his care for the day. It was a beautiful August morning, damp but with the promise of restrained sunshine later in the day. Neville was feeling oddly content and optimistic. In only a few days, Hogwarts would be opening again for lessons. The rebuilding of the castle was getting along nicely, and even though his personal project, the greenhouses and gardens, wouldn't be completed before lessons started, with Malfoy's help they had got more done that Neville had even dreamed was possible at the beginning of the month.

With a sharp crack the now familiar Ministry official appeared with a pale-faced Malfoy in tow. Before Neville had time to ask what was wrong, he had the typical parchment thrust in front of him. He signed absentmindedly, his eyes on Malfoy's pinched face, and the official Apparated away with a muted "Good day."

"What's wrong?" Neville asked softly.

"My mother," Malfoy answered, and swallowed thickly. "Early this morning, she was at attacked. In Diagon Alley." Malfoy looked pained as he continued. "She's in St Mungo's."

"Why aren't you with her?" Neville asked, perplexed.

Malfoy's face twisted into a bitter grimace. "Standing orders," he said in a surprisingly accurate imitation of the Ministry official's murky Liverpudlian accent. "He is to deliver me from nine to seven every day into your care, unless he is told differently. And he wasn't," Malfoy explained sourly.

Neville made a split second decision.

"All right, then," he said. "Let's get going. Meet me in the hospital reception?"

Malfoy's resigned resentful expression morphed to one of pleased, but wary, astonishment.

"The orders are that you are to be in my care from nine till seven. I feel like visiting St Mungo's this morning. I can hardly leave you here unattended, can I?" Neville explained reasonably to his wide-eyed companion.

Malfoy gave Neville a lopsided grin, looking grateful and overwhelmed.

"Yes, you're right," he said, his voice taking on a strange new cadence Neville hadn't heard before. "You can't leave me here unsupervised; Merlin only knows what I could get up to. Much more prudent you take me along."

Without losing any more time, they both Apparated to St Mungo's reception and quickly and efficiently browbeat a mediwitch into leading them to Narcissa Malfoy.

They found her lying in a corner bed in an overcrowded ward, looking pale and wan. Her brow was wrinkled as if she was in pain, and she was staring at her hands dejectedly.

She looked up as soon as Malfoy called to her, and her face immediately lit up. Her son ran to her and clasped her hands in his.

"How are you?" he asked earnestly, and Neville started feeling out of place.

"Much better now that you are here, my dear," Narcissa answered, her face glowing and her eyes only for her son. She tenderly smoothed his hair off his face, a soft smile on her lips.

Neville felt jealousy, sharp like acid, churning in his gut. For as long as he could remember, he had longed for his own mother to look at him like that. He began to turn away and leave the Malfoys to their privacy.

"Draco, who is your friend? Where are your manners? Why don't you introduce us?" Narcissa's clear-cut voice stopped Neville's creeping retreat in its tracks. He turned around in time to see Malfoy giving them both a sheepish grin.

"Sorry, how rude of me," Malfoy excused himself. He then smiled charmingly and made the introductions with a flourish. "Mother, this is Neville Longbottom. Longbottom, this is my mother."

With a smile, Narcissa gracefully held out her hand to be kissed. Neville strode up to her bed and took her hand gently in his much larger once. Feeling very clumsy and young, he bent down as gallantly as he could and barely brushed her knuckles with his lips. Malfoy's mother truly was a beautiful and regal looking woman, but more importantly, she was Malfoy's mother.

"I'm so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Longbottom," Narcissa spoke as soon as he had released her hand. "Draco has told me about you." Her eyes softened with the mention of her son, and she cast him a fleeting glance. "We can't express how grateful we are to your kindness and compassion." Her eyes took on an earnest shine as she spoke. "Not many would gift Draco with a second chance, like you have done, without holding any grudges."

Neville felt his face heat up. "It's nothing. Nothing any one else wouldn't have done," he mumbled.

"On the contrary, few would have done as you. You are a young man of remarkable calibre." She smiled good-humouredly, and Neville could make out traces of her son's impish grin. "You are also a young man of astounding courage," she continued. "I remember you from the battle at Hogwarts. I was most impressed by your bravery."

Neville blushed a violent, fiery red. "Please don't mention it," he told her. He had been praised so much on his role during the battle, that he hardly knew how to respond any more.

Malfoy came and stood next to his mother on her other side and laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Mother," he said. "You're embarrassing him. You know how Gryffindors are, modest heroes every last one of them." She looked at him and they shared an amused smile, rich with unspoken words.

"This one certainly is," she answered Malfoy, amusement rich in her voice. Her gaze turned serious, and she stared at her son intensely. "Draco, whatever you do, don't let this one get away. He will be a worthy friend, certainly more than you merit, my darling." She waited for Malfoy to solemnly nod his acknowledgement and turned again to Neville.

"Mr Longbottom," she began. "I know it's probably more than we deserve, but if I could impose even more on your goodwill."

Neville nodded warily, wondering what she was getting to. He should never let himself forget that she was Lucius Malfoy's wife.

"By some stroke of good fortune, you seem to have taken to my Draco and given him consideration and assistance. All I ask is that you bear with him. He can be spoilt and difficult and at times stubborn and irrational. Merlin knows he is arrogant and prideful, and as his mother I can't but take full responsibility for that." Out of the corner of his eye, Neville could see Malfoy squirming and glaring exasperatedly at his mother.

Narcissa, however, continued unperturbed. "I wish I could say that his intentions are good, but they're not always the best. But he is not bad. There is a lot of good in him, and he is intensely loyal to his own. So please don't retract this chance you've given him to redeem himself, and prove he can do good as well, if he puts his mind to it."

Confronted with the earnest pleading of a mother, Neville felt himself at a loss. He hadn't been planning on suddenly abandoning Malfoy. He had hardly realised that by accepting the blond's help, he was essentially taking him on. But the way Narcissa Malfoy put it, he had, unwittingly, taken upon himself a commitment to look out for her son. And while he did realise that there was more than a little Slytherin manipulation hidden in her heartfelt speech, he wasn't averse to doing as she asked. The last year hadn't changed the fact that he was essentially a loner, and the possibility of acquiring a new friend, whatever his past, was appealing.

"Don't worry, Mrs Malfoy," he answered eventually. "I won't let your son's less appealing qualities scare me away. We Gryffindors thrive on adversity, as you may know."

Narcissa laughed delightedly in response.

After that Neville excused himself to sit in the visitor's chair a few feet away while Malfoy and his mother shared whispered words and affectionate gestures. Neville looked away and tried his best to clear his mind of all the jealous and cheerless thoughts that tried to enter.

*

"Thank you so much!" was the first thing Malfoy said as soon as they left the ward, after taking their leave from his mother. He tried to express his gratitude with long convoluted sentences that Neville hardly heard, as he was more interested in Malfoy's shining eyes and radiant face.

"You're welcome; please say nothing more about it," Neville finally cut him off. "I was thinking," he began, changing the subject. And he had been, for the whole time he had sat waiting.

"I was thinking that it felt strange to visit St Mungo's without seeing my parents. I haven't seen them in a long while, and I can't help but feel a bit guilty and sad."

Malfoy's expression changed immediately to one of solemnity and compassion. "Of course," he said. "You should visit your parents. I can go back and sit with my mother until you finish. I don't mind in the least."

"What I was really thinking," Neville clarified, looking off to the side and ruffling the hair at the back of his neck nervously, "was that I'd really prefer not to visit them alone. I would like some company. That is, if you wouldn't mind terribly much coming with me."

Neville felt ill at ease and shy, sharing something so personal as the state of his parents with someone that wasn't even a proper friend yet. But somehow, he felt that it was something he wanted and needed to do. In the few weeks he had known Malfoy, the other had shared a number of things with Neville. And today, he had met Malfoy's mother and had been accepted by her. Neville's sense of fairness demanded that he in turn share something with the other man, and what was more personal and important than his parents?

"All right," Malfoy answered carefully. "I would be honoured to visit your parents with you." The look on the blond's face showed that the trust Neville was putting in him wasn't going unappreciated.

Neville turned and let the way to the Janus Thickey ward. He couldn't help the slight tremors of nervousness that wracked him, nor could he help the foolish sense of hope that sparked in his stomach. A step behind him Malfoy followed, faithfully and comfortingly.

~o~

Draco exited the castle and started walking towards the greenhouses. He barely even thought about it, just made a beeline for his tree.

Above, the stars were shining bright in the cloudless sky, and inside the warm castle the Welcoming Feasting was still carrying on. Draco had sat at a half empty and subdued Slytherin table and heard the headmistress' welcoming speech and saw the new first years being sorted.

He had felt strange and out of place. The cheerful attempt at normalcy by all had rung a bit false. Longbottom had been sitting across the room at the Gryffindor table, between Potter and Finnigan, and it had been odd and disconcerting that this had annoyed Draco so much.

So he had left for the cool quiet of the outdoors and the friendly whispering of his prickly plum tree. As he sat in his usual spot and thought once more of what lay buried under the ground, he considered that maybe it was time he unearthed it at last. Maybe it had matured underground long enough; maybe he was now ready to be confronted with what he had stolen. It was easy to remember how he had stolen it in the first place.

The final battle of Hogwarts had been a whirlwind of desperation, action, bad decisions, terror and loss. Hexes had flown around him, thrown by braver and more competent fighters than he was, and he had been left at a loss as to what he was actually doing there.

For one brief minute he had thought that Potter was dead, the Dark Lord had won and they all were doomed. For one brief minute he had thought he was watching Longbottom commit suicide in front of him.

And then, and then, it had all happened so fast. The Dark Lord was dead, so was his monstrous snake, so was Draco's crazy aunt Bellatrix and so many, many others.

He had run around like a Crup without a master, looking for his parents. But once he had found them, once they had embraced and reassured each other that they were alive and well, he had remembered what he had heard the Dark Lord say before he had died. He had killed Snape. Severus Snape was dead, and Draco had felt the loss like a mortal wound to his soul.

He had muttered vague excuses to his parents and had escaped, running through damaged hallways, hardly knowing where he had been going or what he had wanted. At some point he had stumbled over a dead body lying on the floor. He had barely looked at the body to see if he had known it, but out of the corner of his eye, he had spied the deceased's wand lying on the floor. He had snatched it up and continued his mad course through the hallways, between the rubble and dead bodies.

He had ended up at the headmaster's office. He had known, subconsciously, that he had always been heading this way, towards the office he had started to identify with Snape and their talks, and the gentler, more humane side of the professor he had got to know the past year.

He had run up the staircase, his eyes stinging – but tears refusing to fall, to find the door ajar. Someone had been there before him. Rushing in, he had found the office empty and abandoned. Even the portraits had left to visit the victors in the Great Hall.

He had looked around, desperate to find something, anything, to remind him of Snape. To prove that Snape had been a real, living, breathing wizard and his friend.

On the table had sat Dumbledore's old Pensieve, full to the brim with wispy, silvery memories. Draco had gone closer, curious. Who could have left memories lying about in the middle of a battle? He had dipped his head in to see more and had discovered that all the memories were Snape's. He had rushed through, too agitated to really see anything, and he had seen Snape as a boy, as an adolescent, a young man, as old as he had remembered him just yesterday.

Draco had yanked his head out, his mind reeling. Looking around the room wildly, he had spied a discarded glass bottle on the floor. He had scooped up the bottle and quickly emptied all the memories into it. Whoever had left these memories lying around obviously had no need for them. And Draco, Draco possibly was the last person left alive who cared about the old gloomy Potions master.

He had run out the office, with his precious treasure, desperate to find a safe hiding place for it before he was taken away to Azkaban, as was surely going to happen.

Only Draco hadn't ended up in Azkaban, as he had feared. The positive testimony of the Boy Who Lived Twice had prevented that happening. He had ended up back in Hogwarts. And as he sat under his tree, looking over the dark silent Scottish hills, he thought it was time to take a proper look at Severus Snape's memories and offer the man the respect and remembrance he deserved.

The only niggling thought was the fact he didn't want to do it alone. He wanted to share the man Snape had been and what he had meant to him with someone else. Someone he trusted to understand and offer sympathy.

~o~

Neville steps out of the castle, into the dark cool night. Above him the stars are shining, bright and distant, and behind him lays the rebuilt castle. Inside it's warm and cheery; the Welcoming Feast hasn't yet finished.

However, Malfoy isn't inside anymore. He's also outside in the dark night. He has been for some time, and Neville knows where to find him.

Neville lets his feet guide him on the well-worn path. He would know the way even with his eyes closed. The shimmery, shadowy, almost invisible shapes of the greenhouses come into view. Behind them is planted a single Pugnacious Plum Tree. The tree is old and very bad tempered. Not even Neville has managed to tame it. And yet the irascible tree has taken Malfoy under his foliage.

Malfoy spends too much time under that tree. He sits on the ground and stares into the distance. He seems to be thinking and remembering and dreaming. He pats the earth affectionately and looks contemplative. Neville has long wondered what the story that surely lies beneath is, and if he will ever be told.

Sure enough, as he rounds Greenhouse Three, the dark form of the tree comes into view, and underneath it the slim silhouette of a young man. Neville wonders if he should interrupt the silent and solitary scene, if he would be welcome. But his feet have brought him so far, and he knows he will interrupt.

"Hello, Malfoy," he says as he comes even closer. It's funny, yet fitting, how, even after all they have shared so far, they still call each other by their surnames.

Malfoy turns round, the stars shining in his eyes and the moon glimmering in his hair and pale face. The night seems to change everything into odd, magical versions of their mundane daytime selves. It feels like anything is possible this night.

Malfoy looks at him deeply, and for a moment Neville worries that he doesn't recognise him. "Maybe I was just waiting for you," Malfoy says cryptically.

Without waiting for an invitation, Neville sits next to him on the ground. The tree grumbles and complains above them and they both look over the silent, distant hills together.

"It feels like it's time," Malfoy says suddenly, his voice soft and wondering. "It, strangely enough, also feels like you are the right person." Malfoy turns his head to stare at Neville, his eyes wide and clear. And Neville looks back, unblinking, as the grey eyes glitter and spark.

"I want to tell you a story," Malfoy says, his voice serious and deep. "I want to tell you a story about a boy and his teacher, about a monster and unpleasant, shameful deeds, about weakness and regret, compassion and forgiveness. I want to tell you about a stolen object and share a secret treasure with you."

Neville nods and stretches out to clasp Malfoy's cold hand in his own. "I'm listening," he says solemnly and knows that they are on the cusp of something. Something he hopes will be beautiful and long-lasting.

an ending / a beginning