Chapter Text
Before the start of the Fifth Year, Professor Sprout had specifically warned Neville he needed to manage at least an Exceeds Expectations on his Potions OWL if he wanted to take her additional Herbology elective on Apothecary Garden Management. Neville didn’t know what career he wanted in the future, just that he was good with his hands and with plants, and sometimes it felt like not much else. His father and mother had both been Aurors, but nothing in his life to this point made him feel he had the requisite bravery for that particular career path.
But Neville considered himself a hard worker at the very least and was determined to do his best to improve his grades in Potions so he could take Professor Sprout’s class. She thought he could do it and that meant he had to try his damndest. Besides, knowing how to manage an Apothecary Garden seemed like useful knowledge no matter what job he took after Hogwarts.
What he hadn’t expected was for Pansy Parkinson and Draco Malfoy to have a very public, very dramatic breakup outside of the Potions classroom just before the first class of the year, causing Professor Snape to passive-aggressively switch around everyone’s seats in order to manage what he called an excess of teenage hormones.
This one small incident effectively made Parkinson his Potions partner for the remainder of the term, a fact that filled Neville with existential dread as he attempted to work on a Calming Draught. He attempted to work with Parkinson, who glared at him and whispered angry corrections at every chop of his knife before she quite literally hip-checked him away from the cauldron and took over the brewing.
After class, Pansy tapped Neville on the arm, “Come with me, Longbottom,” she hissed, “We need to talk.”
Hermione gave Neville a concerned face but he shook his head. This was something he probably ought to deal with if he had any intention of making it into Professor Sprout’s seminar. He also felt a little sorry for her—it couldn't have been easy being publicly broken up with in front of half of their year. According to Seamus, his insistence on seeing both sides of every situation was one of his most irritating qualities. “ Sometimes a git is just a git,” Seamus had said when he’d expressed sympathy for Malfoy when he’d been bitten by the hippogriff. But Neville had spent too much time in Madam Pomfrey’s care to not feel a little bad for anyone who got injured.
He followed Parkinson into an empty brewing classroom and turned to face the disgruntled witch.
“First of all, I did not ask to be partnered with you,” she began in a rather snotty tone, almost immediately destroying any sense of misguided pity Neville had felt for her.
“I didn’t ask to get stuck with you either, Parkinson. You’re the one who started this whole mess,” Neville said. He was willing to try to be nice—why couldn’t she?
She took a deep breath and continued, “It doesn’t matter. I fully intend on getting an O this year and being partnered with you puts that in extreme jeopardy. I do not know what Granger was doing with you in the past but I need you to step up your game because if you blow up one single cauldron or spill a solitary drop of potion on me, Snape won’t be your boggart anymore. I promise you, I will, and you won't be enjoying it in the slightest.”
The diminutive witch emphasized her point by poking him squarely in the chest with her finger, making Neville blush suddenly.
“All right, all right—I get it. Listen, I have plans on trying my best this year as well. I need to get an E.” Neville said, backing away.
“Great, so you’re going to meet me tomorrow evening in this classroom and we’re going to work on your Potions basics. You can’t be that good at Herbology and that incompetent at brewing, it offends me on a personal level.”
Neville frowned, “You want… to hang out?”
She blanched, “Absolutely not, no, this is not a hangout. This is me, keeping myself from going to Azkaban, because if you ruin my marks this term, I will have to kill you. Be here at seven. I think we’ll start with a wit-sharpening potion, so bring fresh ginger from the Greenhouses. I’ll talk to Professor Snape about letting us use the rest of the supplies.”
She frowned at him again before stalking out of the classroom.
Neville sat for a moment before following her out the door.
Later that evening in the Common Room, Neville and Hermione sat together to complain about their new Potions partners.
“It pains me to admit this since Pansy Parkinson is an abominable cow, but at least she’s competent in Potions. I honestly think she did all the work for Malfoy, his cutting technique is dreadful,” Hermione complained, picking through a loose pile of Bertie Bott’s Beans on the table.
“She’s threatened me with murder if I don’t go to her study session,” Neville said with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, I don’t think she’ll actually do you in, mate. She’s a right bitch, but probably not a killer,” Ron said.
“Probably?” Neville croaked, suddenly feeling far less resigned to the situation than he had earlier in the day.
“Well, never say never, eh?” Ron replied, darkly.
“He’s right, it’s too messy.” Hermione agreed with a sly smile, “She’d have a minion do it.”
Neville went into his first study session with Parkinson with a sense of anxiety and a pocketful of ginger root. She was already there, her thick black hair pushed away her face with an emerald green headband and a frown on her face. There were two cauldrons set up in front of her already and she was organizing a pile of parchment with an aggressive wand flick.
“You’re late,” she said flatly, not even deigning to look up at him.
“It’s seven now, Parkinson. I’m on time.” Neville said, tossing his book bag onto a table.
“On time is late, Longbottom,” she said, meeting his eyes briefly, “did you bring the ginger?”
He nodded, pulling a green glass jar out of his pocket and sliding it across the table towards her. She stopped it deftly with her wand and frowned at him.
“Don’t throw things in a Potions classroom, you absolute muppet. That’s how you end up causing an explosion. You should have learned that by 5th year but I suppose you are classmates with that health and safety hazard, Finnegan. Now sit down and read the entire instructions on that parchment before you do or touch anything else. We’re doing a wit-sharpening potion because Morgana knows you could use some,” she spoke rapidly, firing off insults with barely a breath.
“You know, you don’t have to be such a… such a bitch, Parkinson,” Neville muttered as he sat down at the table and took the parchment she held out towards him.
She sniffed delicately in response and he finally looked up at her—her expression was furious and almost a little hurt, but Neville stood his ground. He wasn’t about to let her intimidate him—not when he needed to do well this year for Professor Sprout. He met her eye without blinking and she gave him a grim sort of nod.
“I may be a bitch, Longbottom, but I’m a bitch who is going to make sure you get at least an E in Potions this year. So just shut up and read the instructions and let me know when you’re ready to begin.”
She sat down and pulled out a thick green book with gold lettering on the cover, An Illustrated Guide to Toxic, Intoxicating, and Narcotic Plants, J. Parkinson, flipping through the pages with a bit more force than was probably strictly necessary.
“You don’t have to be, though. I mean, why are you always so mean?” Neville persisted.
“Merlin, you’re stubborn. Don’t you ever just let things go, Longbottom?”
Neville shuffled the parchment in his hands and thought for a moment.
“Honestly, no,” he said, “I don’t much see the point.”
It was true—his stubbornness had served him well, in the past. It was what kept him getting back up when he tripped over his own feet nearly every day of First and Second Year, when he had to stay up late with Hermione to practice Transfiguration, or when his Gran thought he may never come into his magic.
“That was a rhetorical question, you absolute Gryffindor,” she said, slamming her book shut and pulling out a small silver knife to begin chopping ingredients with a precision he couldn’t help but admire.
The next class with Professor Snape swiftly approached and while Neville was nervous, he knew now he at least could work with Parkinson’s angrily whispered instructions in his ear. It turned out that she provided a buffer between him and Professor Snape—Snape seemed inclined to ignore him with Parkinson by his side, preferring to focus his wrath and irritation at Harry, who was unfortunately now situated next to a very distressed Daphne Greengrass. Merlin knew Neville felt bad for Harry, but he was going to take advantage of this temporary good fortune and at least attempt to do well in class today.
Things seemed to be going well until Greg Goyle, who had been moved next to Dean Thomas behind them, began whispering.
“Pans, Pans! What the bloody hell am I supposed to do next?” Goyle said, pelting their table with tiny crumpled-up balls of parchment.
Her spine stiffened at the sound of his voice and she turned around to whisper back sharply, “I don’t know, Gregory, why don’t you go ask Draco!”
At this point, she grabbed the stone mortar and pestle out of Neville’s grasp and began aggressively grinding the wormwood seeds into a fine paste.
“Are you okay?” Neville asked, leaning down to whisper in her ear.
“I’m fine. Pay attention to the sodding instructions, Longbottom,” she replied, stiffly ignoring the quiet hooting from Goyle behind them.
Neville shrugged and continued to work, electing that if she wasn’t going to talk about it, he wasn’t going to force her—at least not yet.
That evening in the library, Hermione sat next to Neville with a thick stack of textbooks and parchment.
“You did well in Potions, today, Neville,” she said, pulling out her quill.
Neville shrugged—their potion had turned out correctly, but it didn’t really feel like he’d been allowed to add much to the process. They’d only had the one private study session but he thought, hoped, rather, he’d be allowed to do more.
After thinking about it again, Neville decided he wasn’t going to stand for being bossed around or pushed aside in Potions by her. If she were willing to spend time in the dungeons giving him extra tutoring, she needed to be willing to let him participate fully in class as well instead of just treating him like her assistant. It was the only way he could put into practice what she was ostensibly teaching him, anyway. He picked up his quill and began to revise his notes.