andy_star: The Crossed Line (Neville, PG13)
“You know, Potter, I don’t know why you even bother taking Transfiguration,” said a drawling voice. The Gryffindor boys, as one, rolled their eyes and prepared for yet another one of Malfoy’s vindictive rants. Neville, who had been doodling on his parchment, didn’t even bother putting down his quill.
“Go away, Malfoy,” Harry grunted, from his seat next to Ron. “You don’t have time to really get into it before class.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised what I could manage,” said Malfoy. He was not flanked, as he usually was, by Crabbe and Goyle, making what he was doing a bit idiotic, really. Perhaps he thought there was no chance of the Gryffindors going after him when Professor McGonagall could show up at any minute. “For example - Weasley, how long have those shoes been in your family? Or did your mother simply scrounge around in a rubbish dump for them?”
Ron reddened and clenched his fists. “Bugger off, Malfoy.”
“Yeah, leave off, will you?” Neville said, eyeing Ron cautiously.
This was a mistake, as it instantly turned Malfoy’s attention onto him. “Oh, did I say something to offend you, Longbottom?” the blonde Slytherin spat visciously. “I don’t suppose your mother has ever bought anything for you either - or for anyone else for that matter. Total nutjob, you know,” he announced to the room at large. “Hey - I heard she hasn’t taken off her nightgown for seven years, is that true?”
The next thing Malfoy knew, he was lying on the floor, Neville’s fist having connected hard with his face, and his nose was bleeding. Neville was being held back by both Harry and Dean, though both boys looked as though they would rather let him go. Ron was also standing up, looking furious.
This was the time Professor McGonagall chose to enter her classroom. “What is going on here?” she barked, sending almost everyone else back to their seats.
“Longbottom hit Draco, Professor!” piped up Pansy Parkinson, sounding horrified, but in that thickly overdone way she used to impress teachers.
“Malfoy said something horrid about Neville’s mum, Professor,” argued Hermione, who was looking genuinely shocked.
“I was just asking him a question!” Malfoy whined as he got to his feet, trying to stem the bleeding with his handkerchief.
Neville barely heard what people were saying. He struggled in his housemates’ grip, determined to wipe the smirk off that pale face. “Let it go, Neville,” he heard Harry mutter in his ear. Slowly, he calmed down a little, to the point where Harry and Dean obviously felt it was safe to let go of him. Harry kept a reassuring hand on his shoulder, however.
“Mr. Longbottom?”
He looked up at his Head of House with no small amount of trepidation. “Yes Professor, I hit him. Sorry.”
“I am not the one to whom you should be apologising, Mr. Longbottom.”
Neville looked over at Malfoy, who was sporting a bruised face and a bloodied handkerchief. “I will if he will,” he said.
“I’m not apologising to you, Longbottom,” Malfoy spat. “You’re as mad as your half-brained mother, you are.”
“Mr. Malfoy!” Professor McGonagall exclaimed, as Harry tightened his grip on Neville’s shoulder. It wasn’t necessary, however. “Forty points from Slytherin!”
“What?” yelled Theodore Nott, from his seat. “Oh, great, Malfoy.”
“Doesn’t he get punished?” Malfoy asked, pointing at Neville.
“Longbottom, see me in my office after your last class,” said Professor McGonagall. “Now will you all please sit down?”
--
Neville spent the rest of the day in the company of people who slapped him on the back and told him he was a hero. Still, he knew there were rumours spreading through the school about his parents, something he’d managed to avoid for six whole years, and it gave him an uncomfortable hollow feeling in his stomach. Harry and Ron in particular stayed close to him, apparently worried that Malfoy or some of the other Slytherins might stage a counter-attack, but it seemed that Malfoy was too embarrassed at having been knocked over by Neville that he wasn’t planning any such thing.
At the end of the day he made his way to McGonagall’s office, entering with some trepidation when she answered his knock. “Sit down,” she said, pushing a plate towards him. “Have a biscuit.”
“Thanks,” he said, taking the proffered chocolate digestive.
“Fighting, Neville?” she said, a little incredulously.
“You didn’t hear what he said about -,” he began to protest, but the Professor held up her hand.
“What I did hear was enough. I won’t be taking points, Neville.”
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Detention?”
“Or giving you detention,” she replied with a smile. “I realise you were provoked - and you do have an otherwise clean record when it comes to, ah, physical violence.”
“My hand hurts,” he admitted. “I don’t think I did it right.”
“Perhaps that’s just as well,” she suggested, eyeing him carefully. He nodded, a little sulkily, and bit into his biscuit.
“How is your grandmother?” she asked him.
“Fine,” he said, swallowing. “You won’t tell her, will you? She’ll kill me.”
“I won’t,” she assured him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “Neville…” she said after a moment. “I know I’m not supposed to condone fighting, in any way, but the fact remains…” He looked up at her, unsure of what to expect. “Your mother would be proud of you,” she said, finally.
He smiled. “Now, off with you!” she said, waving him away. “I have essays to mark.”
He went to the door. “Thanks, Aunt Minerva,” he said, and went to face the rest of the school. He felt quite a lot better about it than he had before.
Minerva watched him go with a faint smile on her face. Her Godson would manage to get into trouble the week before the exams.