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It isn't anything new to hear Snape mock Neville during Potions class.
Majority of the students - in fact, nearly all of Gryffindor and Slytherin alike - try to ignore it and focus on their work. It still bothers some students, but by now they've all come to accept the overdone scene as unstoppable and have learned interfering never helps. Unless something unusual occurs or Snape says something particularly scathing, it's only Malfoy and his goons that still snicker anymore. To the rest of them, it's just another part of Potions.
However Harry's never been able to feel this way.
"The only remarkable trait to you," He hears because he cannot seem to simply ignore this casual cruelty while his peers seem to be able to, cannot but help to overhear. Maybe it's because Neville deserves to have someone listen - or just have someone even acknowledge that it was happening. If nothing else, Harry could do that for him - whether or not Neville even noticed him doing it. "It would seem, is in the way you somehow manage to devise in becoming more pathetically dimwitted with each passing day."
Harry never has been able to filter it out like his peers can do. He knows that he needs to focus on his potion because Snape looks for reasons to deduct points from him; still, he cannot ignore it completely. Half his focus is on chopping flobberworms and half of it is directed to listening to Neville's shaky breaths as Snape calls him useless.
"Sorry," Neville weakly says once more like he always does even though every time he speaks only further ignites the professor's rage. Except then Neville continues, and Harry's knife stills midair. "It's just - could I please, sir - I think I should go to the Hospital Wing."
Harry turns to look. The injury isn't as obvious like an exploded cauldron burn but is very noticeable. Neville's shirt sleeves have been rolled up for this class, and the bleeding wound on his arm is visible even as Neville presses his other hand against it to try and stem the deep flow. It's a bad, painful looking wound.
Snape sneers. "You haven't thought a day in your life, Longbottom. Now get back to work."
Neville looks up in surprise and then flinches away from the professor's gaze. Hesitantly, he lifts his hand away from his wound, rolls down his sleeves like he can and must hide the injury. His bloody hand trembles as it leaves bloodprints on his white shirt. His wound starts seeping through. And Neville ducks his head further to avoid looking up at his professor lording over him.
The knife drops from Harry's hand onto the work station with a clatter. He can feel Ron and Hermione glance at him but he only has eyes for Snape.
Upon hearing the noise, Snape turns and notices his stare. "Slacking off are we, Potter? Five points from Gryffindor." This too isn't anything new. Beside him, Ron pauses just long enough to share a sympathetic look - except this time, Harry breaks routine and doesn't turn, doesn't smile bitterly before resuming preparing potion ingredients.
"Shouldn't Neville go to the Hospital Wing?" He asks loudly. The classroom pauses as eyes flicker between Harry to Snape then to Neville. The rest of the students maybe are fooled with Neville's sleeves pulled down. Harry and Snape are not.
Snape's cutting reply instead of actual human decency shouldn't have taken him by surprise - and yet it has. "While you may be used to your every lackadaisical whim being catered to for the inane sake of tending to your pathetic celebrity ego, Potter, the rest of the world has no such need to be pampered."
It's basically a long winded 'no.' None of the rest of the words in that matter.
"But he's bleeding," Harry points out, gesturing towards him as if the sharp eyed professor could have missed it even though he knows Neville has told him. It isn't him being unobservant that causes him to overlook it, he knows, but instead him being spiteful. Cruel.
Silently Snape sighs; the gesticulation is in the movement of his shoulders and flaring of his nostrils instead of in sound like how other people sigh. "Unlike yourself, Mr. Potter, I have both: a functioning brain and an understanding of the English language. I am well aware of Longbottom's most recent failure."
"But - "
The professor, as always, does not want to hear what Harry has to say. "Five points from Gryffindor - for continuously interrupting the class in an attempt to satisfy your outrageous, deplorable need for attention."
It's a petty and juvenile comment, and he has silently endured the brunt of much worse insults than this before without cracking. But he's tired of being treated poorly while biting his tongue.
He's tired of everyone always expecting him to let things go because that's just the way things are. It's not fair. Nothing in his life ever has been fair. But that doesn't stop the burning, indignant anger that arises each and every time. Because it's not fair. He doesn't understand why he should have to pretend it is, why it's expected for him to avert his eyes from injustices just because they're frequent; if anything, that makes it worse in his eyes because they are frequent. That it's considered normal when it should not be.
It may not be strategic, but - right now in the heat of his indignant fury - he can't keep quiet because it's not fair.
Neville's shoulders hunch further. It's not just his hands that are shaking now; his entire body trembles.
It's not fair. And, when push comes to shove, Harry always has been a Gryffindor through and through.
"Come on, Neville," Harry says, never taking his eyes off Snape. He swiftly grabs all his things, shoves them into his bag, throws the bag strap over his shoulder, and abandons his and Ron's potion entirely to approach Neville's other side. "Let's get you to Madam Pomphrey."
Snape narrows his eyes. And, unbowed, Harry narrows his own eyes right back at him. It's another reoccurring battle that he cannot win even as he does, but that will never stop him from fighting this war. He doesn't count his victories because he is set up to lose and always will be because Snape never attacks fairly; instead Harry counts all the losses that he stops as worth it, counts all the flinches Neville doesn't have to endure, counts all the insults Hermione doesn't have to bear, counts all the detentions Ron doesn't have to receive. Harry may not win this battle but he wins something when it's because of him that his friends don't lose.
Neville turns, wide-eyed, and he looks between Harry and Snape in rapid succession while the entire class realizes this isn't the normal iteration of how this goes, and collectively stops ignoring Neville to watch with a combination of held breath and some scarce, barely emitted whispers. "It - it's fine," Neville whispers, face ashen. Both hands trembling. "Harry, I'm fine. Really."
The lie is unconvincing. The wound on his arm is obviously painful, its severity equally as obvious. Not as severe, it seems, as Neville fears Snape's wrath to be.
But that's fine. Let his wrath come. If there's something that Harry's good at, it's redirecting other peoples' anger and aiming it towards himself. Neville may fear Snape's ire, but he won't have to face it if Harry can take the brunt of it and shield him.
"Potter. Return to your seat at once." Snape hisses, only solidifying Neville's fear and causing him to cringe under the furious gaze.
But Harry isn't Neville.
Neville shrinks under the wrath; Harry expands. It only incites him further upon seeing Snape's anger. Makes him feel like there is something expanding that cannot be contained, cannot be cowed into submission. His own anger grows and grows and burns so hotly within him that it incinerates whatever insult Snape has said next. He gathers Neville's things while staring Snape in the eye - while the anger within him expands him into something broader than himself and stretches him into something taller than himself too - lifts his friend's bag, and slings it over his shoulder as well. Because it isn't fair and because they are leaving.
"Harry," Hermione whispers from her seat, eyes wide and worried behind a pale faced Ron. He glances back at them for only a moment. The rest of the class watches silently now - too shocked to whisper, too shocked for even Malfoy to react. While it isn't unusual for Harry to let this blaze of fury well with him, it is unusual for him to kindle it until it grows and grows to match Snape's own - to overtake Snape's wrath. His peers stare at him like they never seen him before; maybe the inferno within him is visible for once. Maybe it isn't but they can still feel how enormous it is, how massive it is. Maybe they can feel the heat brimming out from him as he becomes too vast for the room, too vast for the professor to quell by merely taking points. Maybe he is a volcano erupting; maybe he isn't, only feels that way.
What he is, he knows, is leaving.
"Mr. Potter," Snape's voice rises in volume well above his usual restrained tenor. Like he has to rise to meet Harry for size.
Like Harry is big and for once Snape must compensate himself now that he is facing someone who has him outmatched.
"Come on," He says again, ignoring both his friends' silent worry and Snape's loud ire. His is louder, his is more. This is a battle he cannot win; but this is a loss he will not lose. He places one steadying hand on Neville's trembling shoulder and pulls lightly; Neville immediately uncurls himself to follow in that direction, his compulsion to obey instinctual. Harry rotates him away from Snape's glare, shields him bodily and emblematically from him, heaves him upright off his chair, and guides him toward the entrance way.
"Potter!" Snape snarls, "Return to your seat!" Neville inhales a sharp breath and almost stops walking, but Harry ushers him firmly forward. Hands gentle but firm. Snape doesn't follow them, is so assured in his dominance that he knows they will stay because is ordering them to. "For your insufferable insolence, I will take fifty points from Gryffindor, and the both of you shall attend detention indefinitely. Now you shall this instant - "
Harry shoves them out of the classroom and lets the heavy door slam behind them with no intention of staying for the lecture or detentions assigned or points missed. He is buoyed by the momentum of his own determination and lava.
Outside now in the corridor, Neville sags bonelessly, and the only thing that keeps him upright is Harry's quick reflexes. A guiding hand becomes two pillars of support.
"Harry," Neville whispers in sheer horror, knees shaking, as Harry catches him by the upper arms. "We - we have to go back." His face is starkly white. By contrast, the sleeve of his shirt is distinctly red. The idea of going back into the classroom after having walked out ascends Neville's fear into a higher plane of terror.
Harry simply steadies Neville from behind until he's sure that his quivering legs can hold him upright. "Come on," Harry says, softly, makes sure that his lava burn only himself and never his friend, "Let's get you to Madam Pomphrey." When Harry starts walking, hands raised from Neville's upper arms to his shoulder once more, Neville follows. Unable to say no. He knows how to say no but rarely ever does after following Potions; Harry would feel bad about using this except Neville really does need to go to the Hospital Wing.
"He's going to kill me," Neville whispers. But still he lets Harry guide him forward. Leans on him for support. It is both his trust in Harry and his inability to voice his own self autonomy that leaves him this docile. "He really will this time."
"If he tries to kill you," Harry promises firmly, "He'll have to go through me first."
At that, Neville twists his neck and looks over his shoulder at Harry with wide eyes. Whatever expression he sees on Harry's face causes him to let out a sigh and face forward once more.
"I mean it, Neville," Harry assures him.
"Yeah. I think you do," Neville agrees softly. And Harry cannot pinpoint how, but there's a clear shift after that. The sole force, now, that guides Neville forward is his conviction in Harry.
Harry cautiously drops his hands, hovering for a moment in case he needs to steady Neville, and then, when Neville keeps upright, he drops them and moves to stand at Neville's side instead of behind him. Neville stays upright on his own the whole way there, and the whole way there his hands slowly stop trembling and become still. Become calmer.
It's may be a battle that Harry can never win; but this is a loss that he will never, never be willing to lose without fighting for it.
Madam Pomphrey clicks her tongue against her teeth, disapproval radiating from her in almost tangible waves as Harry refuses to leave and Neville takes slightly too long to explain why he needs medical assistance.
Harry urges Neville to sit down on a hospital bed, then helps him roll up his sleeve; he ignores the blood pressing into the pads of his fingers as he does so, does not ignore Neville's wince and tries to be gentler. Madam Pomphrey looks at the newly exposed arm and nods briskly.
"This won't take long at all to fix up. Longbottom, you ought to just have come after class was finished," She chides and turns her back to them as she gathers a potion from a cabinet. Not having to face the effects her words cause.
"Sorry," Neville mumbles, chin tucking away towards his chest in shame.
"He's bleeding," Harry reminds her bluntly, unimpressed. Madam Pomphrey clicks her tongue against her teeth chidingly and doesn't seem all that concerned by it - seems a touch annoyed, in fact. Whether it's annoyance toward Neville or himself - or both of them - he can't really tell.
He knows the mediwitch thinks that Harry shouldn't be there - should never have come and should have left Neville to make his own way to the Hospital Wing. He also knows that Madam Pomphrey doesn't realize that Neville wouldn't have gone without Harry, doesn't realize that it took him near dragging his friend out of class to get him here.
But even if she's annoyed with Harry's presence, it didn't mean she could take it out on Neville. Didn't mean she should tell him not to come get medical aid until class is over. Didn't mean she should carelessly or cruelly reinforce the self depreciating ideas that Neville already had.
Madam Pomphrey seems unimpressed and unbothered by the reminder of Neville's wound.
Harry clenches his jaw, clenches his fists; his fingernails bite into his palms as he bites back the angry words he wants to say.
She turns around. Harry was right, of course he was. She is annoyed. "Right, well, this will fix you up, Mr. Longbottom," She says briskly. "Go ahead and drink the whole bottle." Neville takes the potion from her with shaky fingers, has to steady it with his other trembling hand that's covered in tacky blood from trying to stem the flow earlier. There is no way that Madam Pomphrey can miss this but doesn't comment upon it. "That's a good lad, now hold still."
She aims her wand at Neville, who indeed goes very, very still. Terrified at wand point. "Don't worry," She at least tries to assure him this time but either is utterly misunderstanding of the cause or deliberately pretending to misunderstand because she says, "It won't take long at all." As if the length of treatment is what has Neville petrified when that so obviously isn't the case at all. As if Neville is merely impatient and not terrified.
Harry digs his nails deeper into his skin and seethes. But keeps silent. Because he knows that Neville needs medical attention and offending the mediwitch would only hurt Neville in the end.
Instead of stitches, she uses a Blood Replenishing Potion as well as a spell to cast the wound closed. It takes scarcely five minutes, all in all, so she's right about it being quick compared to other procedures. But, Harry thinks angrily to himself, that's not the point.
"Sorry," Neville mumbles yet again, and Harry is so overwhelmingly irate that Neville feels the need to apologize for seeking medical attention, so furious that the teachers and staff at Hogwarts encourage Neville to feel that way.
Instead of dissuading him of that notion, Madam Pomphrey only laughs. "Do try to be more careful, hmm?"
Neville smiles sheepishly, accepting the fault as his own.
And Harry? Oh how Harry burns in anger. Neither seem to share his silent wrath - or even notice its existence at all. But that's fine; Harry's well used to that, after all. Used to being unnoticed. Used to having such loud emotions kept so silent that they are not be heard by those around him. What he isn't used to - cannot get used to, cannot overlook - is how unfair it is. It's not fair that Neville says sorry and the school mediwitch allows him the blame.
Harry doesn't know how to fix it - but it doesn't mean that he has to accept it either.
Maybe he is a volcano with magma simmering throughout him; it does not erupt, merely existing. That's the place this burning indignant anger has called home after all. Harry doesn't know how to stop feeling like this - but it doesn't mean he has to. He suspects that he'll stop being angry with the world when the world stops being angry to his friends.
Because Harry doesn't know how to fix it - but it doesn't mean that he has to accept it either.
"Thanks, Harry," Neville says quietly as they leave the Hospital Wing together with Neville's wound now closed and bandaged, with his blood replenished.
"Anytime," Harry swears because he means it.
The small but sincere smile on Neville's face makes Harry grin.
Something fierce and proud burns in his chest.
Neville's hand is covered in dry blood. But it doesn't shake. Harry knows he's fighting battles he cannot win;, but sometimes the losses that he refuses to concede and thus saves, well, they feel a lot like victory.
That evening in their common room, Ron remains quiet.
Hermione takes Harry by surprise and doesn't talk about what happened in Potions. She hasn't asked all day so he had thought that she was waiting to do so, waiting for an opportunity where they had time to talk at length about it. Harry doesn't know what it means that Hermione just... doesn't.
All the while, Ron's eyes stare at him in that soulful way he has when he's in between bouts of noise and unruliness. The somber, undivided attention he is giving Harry - now that Hermione has left and the common room is less crowded - is the same look he has sometimes when he plays chess against Dean and considers each move with great and deliberate care; it isn't the look he gives Harry when they play chess together with his wide grin well assured of his victory because Harry is terrible at chess. Ron looks at him now, and he is thinking. Clearly and visibly thinking, if one knows him well enough to see it - and Harry does.
"You're a little bit mental, you know that?" Ron slowly asks, smile only half curling upon his mouth and eyes still serious. Harry shrugs in reply, and Ron scoffs. His smile then blooms for a second, somberness softening into a quick moment of humor. And Harry knows then for sure what this is about. "Mental."
"Someone had to do it." Harry replies loftily.
"Nah," Ron says, equally as casual, but his eyes pierce through Harry's feigned aloofness in a way that makes Harry's breath catch for a moment. "I think maybe only you had to, maybe only you would." He's not sure how to respond to that or to Ron's unflinching, intelligent gaze - but then abruptly Ron softens and stops looking at him like he's a particularly tough Transfiguration question that he knows he studied for but can't quite recall the answer to. Offers a smile. "Fancy a game of Exploding Snap?"
"Um. Sure." His returning smile perhaps is a bit shaky, unsure if the topic has concluded now. Doesn't want to talk about it, actually, which is a bit of surprise; Harry wonders if Hermione had suspected that and that's why she hadn't mentioned it. Ron pays no mind to the slight wobble in Harry's smile; he smiles wider, teeth showing in his grin, as he throws an arm around Harry's shoulder and begins to guide them away from the common room back to their dorm room.
Harry leans a bit into the warmth of his friend and thinks, not for the first time, that he's lucky to have Ron as his friend.
Lucky to have Hermione and Neville as friends too.
But if luck won't fight for them, well, then Harry will.