Four

Summary:Neville, Snape and Hermione return to Hogwarts after the summer. Some things have changed in the post-Voldemort world – how do they cope? (Response to prompt 12 on the Potter Place Fall Challenge Prompt List.)

A/N: Huge, enormous, massive thanks and homage to Subversa for her tireless encouragement and meticulous beta-reading.

Chapter 4

Snape returned to his quarters feeling oddly cheerful. He put it down to having had his first conversation with a personable woman since, oh, about 3000 B.C., even if it was Granger, and even if her attention had been focused elsewhere. Now, there was a puzzle: Longbottom was at the root of all the disruption he'd been noticing. He still couldn't see it himself, but decided that as his colleagues had seen fit not to burden him with any form of social activity, he might as well give some time to observing and analysing the phenomenon. It was strange enough to be mildly interesting, and he could put into use some of the skills he'd honed during his life as a spy.

There was a pile of post waiting for him on his desk. Minerva had been screening his letters for hate mail, Howlers, concealed curses, hexes, jinxes, and poisons – as far as she was able. Clearly, she didn't want him to realise the full extent of his unpopularity with both sides, though she was mistaken if she thought he didn't know. Enough subtle Dark magic got through her net to make that quite clear. Severus checked the letters for anything bad, binned the two hexed ones Minerva had missed (he'd dispose of them properly later), kept the poisoned one for analysis as it looked like an interesting compound (hey, he really was feeling better), chucked the perverted fan mail on the fire, and sat down on his battered old sofa to read the rest. Somewhat to his surprise, there was a collection of articles submitted to various potions journals which had been forwarded to him for review. So although he was a murderer, Death-Eater, traitor, blah, blah, blah, he was apparently still one of the foremost experts in his field. Good. The second positive thing that had happened in his day. And with a little luck, there would be sufficient idiocy in these articles on which to vent his spleen. He made some tea and settled down to work with relish for the first time in a long time. Several hours later, papers scattered far and wide around him, he put down his quill, leaned back and closed his eyes. Where he hadn't been vicious in his commentary, he'd been harsh, and where that hadn't been possible, he had at least managed snide. He felt quite satisfied. Though there remained one or two papers to read, the clock showed that it was time for dinner. Time, therefore, to begin his new project.

So much more cheerful was he, in fact, that Professor Snape even felt up to making his patented Entrance, flinging the door of the Great Hall open and striding down past the house tables with his robes billowing dramatically round him. As he passed the seventh-year Gryffindors, he noticed that Longbottom had arranged protection for himself: Miss Granger and Miss Weasley (safe females, apparently) on either side of him, his dorm mates flanking them and opposite him. Snape wasn't sure about the wisdom of choosing Miss Granger as a shield, given her point-by-point analysis of Neville's attractions earlier, but as he passed, he noticed that she was in fact absorbed not in Mr Longbottom but in a book, and even raised her eyes to give him a smile as he walked by. Hmm. Neville looked stressed. Given that every girl over thirteen who had a chance of seeing him was craning her neck to do so, this was unsurprising. Up at the staff table, Hooch was watching him like a cat at a mousehole, Sprout was watching Hooch suspiciously, and most of the other women couldn't keep their eyes to themselves either. Snape's mouth quirked; this was really amusing.

"You look chirpy, Severus," said Professor McGonagall.

He didn't bother with a put-down for the epithet. Chirpy was very nearly how he felt.

During the meal he exercised his talent for watching without seeming to and examined Longbottom, attempting an aesthetic judgment not coloured by his experience of the boy's ineptitude at potions. To do him justice, Snape had appreciated and even invisibly facilitated Neville's rebellion against the Death Eater regime at the school during the last year, but he had had no idea that any significant physical transformation was taking place under his nose. But now, observing closely, he could see that Neville was just that little bit better-proportioned than the other young men; he moved with an understated strength, but was unfailingly courteous and gentle towards the girls at his side; when talking, his face – yes, it did now seem to be a handsome face – was mobile and expressive; even the hunted look he wore was somehow quite endearing. Turning his attention to the mass of female students (and some males, he noted wryly), Snape saw that nothing Neville said or did went unremarked. The girls in Neville's line of sight blushed and giggled when his eyes fell on them. Except for one.

Hermione had noticed what Snape was doing; Snape noticed her noticing; she noticed him right back. This is ridiculous, he thought. He lowered his eyebrows a fraction in reproof at her stare, but she just grinned impudently back at him before turning to answer something Weasley had said. So Granger wasn't under Longbottom's spell after all. Perhaps she really was 'the brightest witch of her age', gushy though Lupin's description had been.

He finished his meal and left the table without being acknowledged by the rest of the staff. It was galling, the contrast in treatment between that meted out to him and the adulation the Longbottom boy was getting. Severus had admirable qualities – did it take only his readiness to put his life on the line day in, day out for anyone to recognise them? His temper began to sour again. Back in his quarters, he paced moodily for a while, resentment getting the upper hand in his thinking. Indeed, he had been a fool to accept this job, offered to him out of pity in some vain attempt to protect him from pariah status. It was enough to make a man spit. Here, on the one hand, was Longbottom, a young hero, who through a few brave acts but mostly by having a pretty face had achieved the admiration of the world. On the other hand, Severus Snape, who for years had lived a life of danger and often of terror, had worked behind the scenes to save many lives and ultimately prevent the death of countless more by helping to bring down Voldemort, but was he admired and petted? No, he was reviled and ignored!

Snape pulled himself up short, recognising that he was working himself into a jealous rage over the opinion of people whose views he generally despised and about a boy who was in no sense responsible for the situation. There must be a better way of dealing with this: a way that would offer him some personal satisfaction and give him at least some of his own back.

He went into his bedroom, where there was a large, full-length mirror. Right, what did Longbottom have that he didn't? Twenty years less, most of them spent living hard, for a start. Snape noted the deep lines between his eyebrows and the creases either side of his mouth, etched in by his now habitual scowl. He took off his robe and chucked it on the bed. Now what? He stood in his black frock coat and trousers and attempted unsuccessfully to be objective. Item: one head of greasy black hair; item: two black eyes, with lids to them; item: one neck, one chin, and so forth. Nothing special there. Forget the nose for the moment. Better go the whole hog. He took his clothes off and studied himself again. He was, at least, tall. Lean, too (actually a bit too lean – note: should eat more). Muscles not bad, for it had been necessary to stay in condition to combat the rigours of his life, and the last few weeks spent yomping round Ireland hadn't done him any harm. Shoulders? Broad enough to suffice. Arse? He turned round and peered back over his shoulder at the mirror. Now, in the arse department at least, he could compete. However, the whole package was wrapped in skin so pale that he looked like something found under a stone, and the scarring didn't help. Very well, the clothes would have to stay on. He got dressed again and thought back to his conversation with Miss Granger. What else had she specified?

"...the kind eyes and shy smile..." Ye gods, no! "...kind, understanding, considerate, and willing to wear a badly-knitted jumper..." Even less so.

So now the question that had to be asked was: what did he have that Longbottom didn't? He sat down to think for a while, then summoned an elf to carry a hurriedly-penned note.

A/N: "yomping" – UK Marines slang, originally: marching, slogging, trudging.