Neville Longbottom was expelled from Potions on Wednesday, which, Cael was starting to learn, was just Neville’s day.
What Cael found out later, bit by bit, was that Neville was brewing a Forgetfulness Potion for Professor Snape, and that, owing to an unfortunate chain of events wherein Neville had read the word “crushed” as “cushed”, the potion in question had made an unfortunate leap from being liquid to being vapor, foregoing the intermediary steps that the book advised taking.
The resultant smell was briefly and strongly that of mint.
Professor Snape had said something in that tone of voice with which he gave up on the day before lunch, and told Neville to wait outside until further notice.
Exiting Charms after making Cael’s ears amplify everything for ninety seconds, because he’d thought it’d be a good idea to silence the quill, and failing spectacularly, with the bench joining in on the screaming with an enthusiastic vengeance (Flitwick had laughed enough to bring tears to his eyes) – on his way to lunch, Cael smelled the mint first and then spotted the boy on the bench.
The boy was sitting with his head cradled in his hands.
He wasn’t crying.
Cael could tell he wasn’t because the boy’s shoulders weren’t moving.
He was just – sitting.
He was small, with a round face and a bowl cut, and the look of someone who’d been having a rotten day for several years, and had gotten used to it.
“Mourne.” “Longbottom.” “You don’t have to sit down.” “I know.” “It’s just – ” “I know.” “I’m having something of a similar day.
My quill was making noise.” A small twitch of Neville’s mouth was, if not quite a smile, definitely a preface to one.
“Loud how?” “I was trying to silence it, so it got louder.
And the bench.
Flitwick had to put it to sleep.” “You’re kidding me.” “Neville, you *cannot* – ” And he started laughing, unexpectedly.
It was nothing much of a laugh – a quiet thing that came out of nowhere, like a sneeze.
His hand flew to cover his mouth.
“What number is it now,” “If you don’t mind me asking.” “What?” “Cauldrons.
This year.” “Seventh.” “That’s a great cauldron.” “It’s only October.” “True,” And they sat.
From somewhere in the dungeons, Snape sounded like he might be yelling, though Cael didn’t have to hear the words – he was grateful he couldn’t.
The smell of mint lingered.
Neville had finally given up with putting his laugh away and was just looking at his feet.
“It’s getting better,” “It’s not.” “It is.” “It really isn’t, Mourne.” And Cael considered how best to phrase it.
“Look.
You’ve got no chance of evaluating my cauldron number because I only arrived.
But let’s get the facts straight.
You’re here, alive, well, not on fire, not with inhalation injuries – let me suggest that things aren’t actually going *that* bad.” “You – what?” “I’m trying to encourage you.” “In reverse?” “That’s the only encouragement I can give.” And he stared at Cael for a minute.
Sideways.
Long.
“You’re a truly odd one, Mourne.” “I’m well aware of that.” “No, like – *odd*.” “I’m very well aware of it.” “I think I’m going to end up liking you.” “Well.
Good news, then.
I’m new, and don’t know anyone.” The Potions classroom door opened.
Snape appeared in it, tall and imposing, and looked down the corridor at the two boys on the bench.
He stared at Neville, glanced at Cael, and then turned his gaze back to Neville.
He inhaled, slowly, deliberately, as though deciding not to say whatever it was that he wanted to say.
“Longbottom.
Mourne.” “Sir.” “Mourne, don’t you have a lesson?” “It just ended, sir.” “Lunch, then.” “I was on my way, sir.” “Longbottom.
Join up.
The vapours have dissipated.
*Do not*, I mean it, ever misinterpret the word ‘crushed’ in any way.” “No, sir.” Professor Snape gave Cael one last look, long, hard, professionally neutral, but just long enough to take it outside of neutrality – and turned back to his classroom.
Neville stood.
Cael stood.
On a sudden impulse, he held out his hand, and Neville took it.
Neville’s hand was slightly damp, but Cael, oddly enough, chose not to consider the implications of it.
“See you at dinner.” “Yeah,” said Neville.
“Yeah.
See you.” And he returned to his dungeon, while Cael walked to lunch.
Lunch was quiet; he discovered that he was the type to narrate his bad experiences only.
He ate quietly.
He listened to Ron explain the centuries-long grudge some Gryffindors and Slytherins had over Quidditch matches that happened decades ago.
He watched Hermione, three seats away, staring at him with that focused gaze of a person who was planning to talk to him, in two seconds.
It didn’t happen that day.
But it was coming soon.
He could feel her approach.
But that was alright.
He had something to write down.