[fic] in that winter, a day, downton abbey/harry potter, edith/neville, pg
Title: in that winter, a day
Fandom: Downton Abbey/Harry Potter
Pairing: Edith Crawley/Neville Longbottom
Notes: For the AU prompt meme on Tumblr, for the prompt, "Downton Abbey meets Hogwarts," from dreamingofdownton. Prompt came from there; the crazy came from me. Roughly 1k words.
Summary: Edith!fic. The Crawley sisters at Hogwarts with the rest of the HP characters, which makes no sense, but alas.
----
The Great Hall is a riot, a steady, buzzing din against her ears. She is ten and her fingers clench the stool so tightly she is like never to let go. When she walks to join her new House table--red and gold banners, a lion whose mane seems charmed to flow even on the still of the velvet flag--it’s Mary she sees, twirling the end of her blue tie between her fingers. Even at ten, Edith knows the look on her face is one of surprise.
She tucks herself at the end of a bench, confused and withdrawn. Mama and Papa were sure she’d be in Hufflepuff. She’s got a black and gold pennant in her bag. She tries to think if Mama knows of a charm to change its color and she’s so distracted she doesn’t notice when a small boy squeezes in beside her, all elbows and cheeks and terrible hair. He looks as lost as she feels.
They knock knees when they turn to face the Headmaster, brush hands when they reach for the same pumpkin pasty. He is Neville, he tells her.
She thinks very little of him yet, but that will change.
--
“You must sign it, Edith, you must.” Sybil’s elbow is perilously close to her inkpot and Edith reaches out, pulling it away from her sister’s far-flung limbs. She’s not averse to messes but two feet of spoiled parchment and a scene in the middle of the library seem especially pointless.
Sybil doesn’t even notice the inkpot. “It’s a great social injustice,” she says, hitting her palm against the table loud enough to turn the heads of two seventh year girls across the aisle. Edith ignores her sister and turns back to her Transfigurations essay. They’re vanishing invertebrates. If Mary were here, she’d no doubt have a choice comment or two. Take pity on your fellow spineless creatures, she’d say. How can all of you without a backbone stand up if you don’t cling to one another? Edith’s hand tightens just thinking about it and she nearly rips a gash in her parchment.
Sybil lets out another pointed sigh and then perks up suddenly. Edith follows her gaze across the library to Hermione Granger, no doubt pestering someone as equally disinterested as Edith’s proven to be. Sybil gathers her things in a rush, parchment flung this way and that, and hurries across the room. The inkpot turns over, black ink running a river over Edith’s half-finished essay. Sybil doesn’t notice.
--
She follows Neville to the first meeting and then the next. Signs her name to a piece of paper and feels, for once, as if she might belong.
Harry teaches them disarming spells and shield spells. She and Neville practice together. She does not tell him that she’s had more practice than he thinks at parrying blows. Harry teaches them offensive spells, too. Edith’s moves are disorganized and heedless, lashing out at everyone for want of a proper target.
They’re sparring, Neville at one end of the hall and Edith at the other, and she sees a gap in his defense, a break in his protection. She strikes, throws him back, knocks him down onto the pillows laid out for just this purpose. When he lifts his head, his face is split into a grin. “Edith,” he says, “that was brilliant!”
A blush rises in her cheeks, pride pulling her shoulders straight and lifting her chin. She learns the value of a proper blow, the worth of a pulled punch. Her shoulder brushes Neville’s on the way back to the Tower and it might just be her imagination but the look the Fat Lady gives her might well be proud.
--
They’re going home for the Christmas holiday. Edith leans her head against the window and watches the scenery, the rise and fall of the hills and the twists and turns of the water.
Mary is not impressed. “That Slughorn’s a menace,” she says, curling her feet up under her. “He’s always pestering me about Granny and Papa. You should’ve seen him at the holiday party, tripping over himself to make sure I was comfortable. He’s odious.”
Sybil rolls her eyes with affection--there’s always affection, Edith notices, when someone looks at Mary. “You didn’t have to go.”
Mary picks at the hem of her skirt. “Well, one of us had to go. You were too busy and, well. Not all of us were invited.”
It’s pointed and pleased and the sort of thing that would usually have Edith up in arms, but instead she just runs her fingernail along the windowsill and asks, “Have you heard the news from the Ministry?” There are reports coming from in from the city and the southern counties, things the Daily Prophet doesn’t try to explain. She reads all the papers. There’s even a Quibbler tucked into the bottom of her trunk where Papa will never find it.
“Really, Edith,” Mary says, smiling at someone passing in the hallway, “I have better things to do than pore over the papers every morning.” But Mary’s voice is strained and more than a little bit anxious and Edith knows the disinterest is as much an act as the way Mary leans casually against the cushions, limbs and hair arranged too perfectly to be natural.
She wants to speak up, wants to ask what Mary’s so afraid of, but she knows the answer well enough. Something’s coming, something real, and Edith has learned the value of choosing her battles.
--
It’s finally spring. There’s a spot next to the lake where a tree hangs especially bowed, its branches nearly trailing across the lawn when the air comes tripping off the water. Edith leans back against the trunk and runs the grass between her fingers. Neville names the trees, Latin falling thoughtless from his mouth. Salix babylonica, salix alba, salix herbacea. She jots down the final line for her Potions essay and then stretches out, toes pressed against Neville’s knee.
She asks him about plants and flowers; he tells her about late bloomers and sturdy perennials and things that grow and flourish against all odds. The breeze off the lake is cool but his palm against hers is warm.
She thinks him rather a lion-hearted boy.
Fandom: Downton Abbey/Harry Potter
Pairing: Edith Crawley/Neville Longbottom
Notes: For the AU prompt meme on Tumblr, for the prompt, "Downton Abbey meets Hogwarts," from dreamingofdownton. Prompt came from there; the crazy came from me. Roughly 1k words.
Summary: Edith!fic. The Crawley sisters at Hogwarts with the rest of the HP characters, which makes no sense, but alas.
----
The Great Hall is a riot, a steady, buzzing din against her ears. She is ten and her fingers clench the stool so tightly she is like never to let go. When she walks to join her new House table--red and gold banners, a lion whose mane seems charmed to flow even on the still of the velvet flag--it’s Mary she sees, twirling the end of her blue tie between her fingers. Even at ten, Edith knows the look on her face is one of surprise.
She tucks herself at the end of a bench, confused and withdrawn. Mama and Papa were sure she’d be in Hufflepuff. She’s got a black and gold pennant in her bag. She tries to think if Mama knows of a charm to change its color and she’s so distracted she doesn’t notice when a small boy squeezes in beside her, all elbows and cheeks and terrible hair. He looks as lost as she feels.
They knock knees when they turn to face the Headmaster, brush hands when they reach for the same pumpkin pasty. He is Neville, he tells her.
She thinks very little of him yet, but that will change.
--
“You must sign it, Edith, you must.” Sybil’s elbow is perilously close to her inkpot and Edith reaches out, pulling it away from her sister’s far-flung limbs. She’s not averse to messes but two feet of spoiled parchment and a scene in the middle of the library seem especially pointless.
Sybil doesn’t even notice the inkpot. “It’s a great social injustice,” she says, hitting her palm against the table loud enough to turn the heads of two seventh year girls across the aisle. Edith ignores her sister and turns back to her Transfigurations essay. They’re vanishing invertebrates. If Mary were here, she’d no doubt have a choice comment or two. Take pity on your fellow spineless creatures, she’d say. How can all of you without a backbone stand up if you don’t cling to one another? Edith’s hand tightens just thinking about it and she nearly rips a gash in her parchment.
Sybil lets out another pointed sigh and then perks up suddenly. Edith follows her gaze across the library to Hermione Granger, no doubt pestering someone as equally disinterested as Edith’s proven to be. Sybil gathers her things in a rush, parchment flung this way and that, and hurries across the room. The inkpot turns over, black ink running a river over Edith’s half-finished essay. Sybil doesn’t notice.
--
She follows Neville to the first meeting and then the next. Signs her name to a piece of paper and feels, for once, as if she might belong.
Harry teaches them disarming spells and shield spells. She and Neville practice together. She does not tell him that she’s had more practice than he thinks at parrying blows. Harry teaches them offensive spells, too. Edith’s moves are disorganized and heedless, lashing out at everyone for want of a proper target.
They’re sparring, Neville at one end of the hall and Edith at the other, and she sees a gap in his defense, a break in his protection. She strikes, throws him back, knocks him down onto the pillows laid out for just this purpose. When he lifts his head, his face is split into a grin. “Edith,” he says, “that was brilliant!”
A blush rises in her cheeks, pride pulling her shoulders straight and lifting her chin. She learns the value of a proper blow, the worth of a pulled punch. Her shoulder brushes Neville’s on the way back to the Tower and it might just be her imagination but the look the Fat Lady gives her might well be proud.
--
They’re going home for the Christmas holiday. Edith leans her head against the window and watches the scenery, the rise and fall of the hills and the twists and turns of the water.
Mary is not impressed. “That Slughorn’s a menace,” she says, curling her feet up under her. “He’s always pestering me about Granny and Papa. You should’ve seen him at the holiday party, tripping over himself to make sure I was comfortable. He’s odious.”
Sybil rolls her eyes with affection--there’s always affection, Edith notices, when someone looks at Mary. “You didn’t have to go.”
Mary picks at the hem of her skirt. “Well, one of us had to go. You were too busy and, well. Not all of us were invited.”
It’s pointed and pleased and the sort of thing that would usually have Edith up in arms, but instead she just runs her fingernail along the windowsill and asks, “Have you heard the news from the Ministry?” There are reports coming from in from the city and the southern counties, things the Daily Prophet doesn’t try to explain. She reads all the papers. There’s even a Quibbler tucked into the bottom of her trunk where Papa will never find it.
“Really, Edith,” Mary says, smiling at someone passing in the hallway, “I have better things to do than pore over the papers every morning.” But Mary’s voice is strained and more than a little bit anxious and Edith knows the disinterest is as much an act as the way Mary leans casually against the cushions, limbs and hair arranged too perfectly to be natural.
She wants to speak up, wants to ask what Mary’s so afraid of, but she knows the answer well enough. Something’s coming, something real, and Edith has learned the value of choosing her battles.
--
It’s finally spring. There’s a spot next to the lake where a tree hangs especially bowed, its branches nearly trailing across the lawn when the air comes tripping off the water. Edith leans back against the trunk and runs the grass between her fingers. Neville names the trees, Latin falling thoughtless from his mouth. Salix babylonica, salix alba, salix herbacea. She jots down the final line for her Potions essay and then stretches out, toes pressed against Neville’s knee.
She asks him about plants and flowers; he tells her about late bloomers and sturdy perennials and things that grow and flourish against all odds. The breeze off the lake is cool but his palm against hers is warm.
She thinks him rather a lion-hearted boy.