A new story
This time, for HP fandom. It's a little story involving Neville and what happened after he met up with Harry at St. Mungo's in Order of the Phoenix.
The Christmas Gift
By TeriG
She never lets up, Neville thought as Gran yet again launched into a tirade about how he should be telling all his school chums about how his parents had sacrificed so much to defy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Neville tried not to roll his eyes at the old woman, who never let him get a word in edge-wise about why he never told anyone, or even why he felt he shouldn't. In the end he just tuned Gran out. At least until she noticed and demanded to know why he was ignoring her.
"Honestly, Neville," she would say. "Just how you ended up in Gryffindor is beyond me. Get a backbone, boy. You should be proud of your parents, not ashamed of them!"
"I'm not ashamed of them," he would insist, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears.
No, he was never ashamed of them. He just...missed them, if anyone could understand that.
"Neville? Neville?" Gran was saying now. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?"
"Yes...," the boy started.
"I want to know, of all people you have kept the sacrifice of your parents from, why Harry Potter? Of all people, he should know!"
"Gran...," Neville started again.
"I just can't believe...blah, blah, blah..." Neville tuned her out again.
This went on all the way home.
There were times when Neville truly hated Harry Potter. He was "The Boy Who Lived". Whose parents were murdered by You-Know-Who and who survived being murdered himself. He was raised by Muggles, who were quite nasty to him, sure, but when he returned to the Wizarding World, he was taken into everyone's hearts. He was famous, popular, noticed.
Neville felt in those moments that he was "The Boy Whom Everyone Forgot". Few knew, and fewer remembered, the distinguished status his parents held and the sacrifice they made, or even that there were worse things than being orphaned and raised by Muggles. To know every minute of every day and to see it at times of the year when everyone else is happy; to witness it yourself, the damage done by the enemy. To look at the once strong man who was your father and see nothing - just a husk who had to have someone wipe the drool from his lips, staring into nothingness. To see your mother pick at things obsessively, clutch at things desperately and recoil as if pained when you tried to hug her...wanted to hug her... needed to hug her. Then to only have moments, rare and precious moments, when you think she realises you are her child....fleeting moments when she'd reach out and think of you as more than a familiar stranger.
No one could understand that kind of pain. Not even Harry Potter. Not really.
Yeah, sometimes Neville hated Harry Potter. If Harry hadn't have destroyed You-Know-Who, Neville would have had parents.
But those moments of hatred soon passed and in all honesty Neville rather liked Harry for the very things he at times hated him for. He felt a kinship with the other boy. Both of them babies when their parents were taken from them. Both of them raised by relatives who had little use for them. Both of them lonely in so many ways, but Neville was just less in the limelight.
But still there were people who noticed him, for good or ill. For the good he was grateful, but the ill, well, even after third year DADA Neville still couldn't get over his fear of Snape.
When Neville finally reached home and Gran told Uncle Algie the news of his parents' doings and Neville's friends showing up, his Uncle blatantly said, "Mother, leave the poor boy alone. He's got enough to deal with."
"May I go to my room?" Neville suddenly asked.
Gran turned to look at him as if she had just noticed he was there.
"Of course, dear," she said, simply.
Uncle Algie followed him to the stairs. "Ah, don't let the old nag get to you, Nevvie," he said with a wink.
"I heard that!" Neville heard Gan shriek. He grinned at his uncle and went up to his room.
Neville's room would have been considered Spartan if it wasn't for the plants. Neville loved plants. It was something he understood; something that responded to him; something he could do. Other than "the jungle" as Gran affectionately called it, Neville had a dresser, a bed, a nightstand, a desk, a chair and one little mirror Gran felt he needed to check his appearance before he went anywhere.
Not that he used the mirror much. No matter what Neville did, he always looked the same mousy, round, chubby boy he'd always been. He actually looked remarkably like his mother, although she had been considered pretty. He certainly did not inherit any of his father's dashing ways. Mind you, his own gentle manner and boyish shyness and ways appealed to some girls and it wasn't as if he couldn't get a date if he really wanted one. But more often than not, he really didn't want them. He had enough to deal with without that complication.
Neville slowly circled his room, checking his greenery, talking to them (plants loved noise), pruning one here and there and making sure they didn't need watering. The end of his short route took him to his desk and it was here the decided to sit down.
On the desk was a rare plant Gran had managed to find for him. It was his favourite one because the flowers that sprouted from it year round were a dark pink - a pink that made him think of his mother as she was in the photo that sat next to it.
Neville had discovered the flowers had a beautiful scent that seemed to calm the mind in times of trouble. He still had to find out its name, and some of its uses, but rare or not he found a way to care for it and it flourished. Gran was proud of him. Neville knew she really was. He figured he could have just asked Professor Sprout about the plant, but he wanted to find out about it on his own. For the moment, he named after his mother - Alice.
The photo Neville had of his parents was their wedding photo. There they were, before he was even a thought or expectation, his mother glowing with joy, his father proud. To Neville his mother was beautiful. Her clear brown eyes, much like his own, sparkling. The couple in the photo often held hands, embraced and sometimes his father would kiss his mother passionately. When Neville was a child, he thought it icky and would turn the photo away. Now he found it comforting. They had loved each other so much. So much they stood by each other to the very end.
And Neville NEVER doubted they had loved him too. When the Death Eaters attacked, he had also been with his parents. His mother had hidden him, kept him safe. Neville remembered nothing although he had tried. Not even in his dreams could he remember. But his mother thought to save him, much like Harry's mother thought to give her life for her son too.
Neville reached out to touch the picture frame lightly while he thought of what happened at St. Mungo's today...the one moment he caught Harry's eyes, daring him to laugh, and found that there was understanding. A moment of bonding, of knowing. It lacked the pity in Hermione's eyes, or the shock and fear in Ron's. Neville knew truly Harry understood. To lose so much and to never know your real parents.
Yeah, sometimes Neville did hate Harry Potter, but not now, not at that moment when their eyes met. There was no pity, no fear, just an acknowledgement and understanding.
He knew most of his friends would feel sorry for him if he told them. They'd not talk about their lives freely, the fun over vacations. Despite Neville's own pain, he needed to know there was joy and happiness, that families were meant to be happy; to pretend his life was like theirs. Reality often hit home, like it did with Harry, Neville was sure, but at least his friends had homes, and mothers and fathers and siblings to fight with. At least his parents' sacrifice was not in vain.
Neville smiled a bit as his mother's picture blew kisses at him, his father waving. At least there they knew him to be someone they loved. Neville shyly waved back and then took out the sweet wrappers he had put in his pocket earlier at St. Mungo's.
They were from his mother's favourite sweet, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Every time he went to visit he would bring her some. She always ate them like some starving creature, but it seemed she enjoyed them, even if they hadn't been meant to be swallowed. Sometimes, just sometimes, in those rare moments when she'd realise Neville was something more than a familiar stranger, when she'd look at him intensely and not pull away when he reached towards her, she'd reach out herself and give him one of the wrappers.
Today had been the first time she had followed him out to give him one though.
These moments, so precious to Neville, the boy clung to with all his heart. Those were the moments he treasured and because of this, these little crumpled sweet wrappers became like gold to him. Precious treasures. Today she had given him three. That was very uncommon, but each one was a precious gift and Neville slowly and deliberately flattened each one on the desk before him and laid them out next to each other. Once they were neatly arranged, he just looked at them.
His mother was thin and gaunt now, hair white and flyaway. Neville closed his eyes and tried to picture her healed, lucid and instead of a wrapper she reached out to take him into her arms.
Neville sighed and opened his eyes again. He reached next to him to open a desk drawer and took out an old long battered box. It had been the box that once held his father's wand - the wand which was now his. He opened it up. It was full of little flattened candy wrappers collected over his lifetime.
One by one Neville picked up each wrapper, kissed it and put it carefully into the box. Once they were in, he gently covered them with the lid and put the box away in his desk.
"Neville! It's suppertime!" He heard Gran call.
"Coming!" Neville called back. Before he left though, he looked at the photo again, his parents beaming at him. He smiled, waved and once he heard Gran call again, he hurried out of his room and downstairs.
The parents he left behind in the photo hugged each other again.
It's been something that's sat in my brain for a while. I finally decided to put in on paper and get it out. I want to work on it a bit more...but this is close to where I want it to be. :D
The Christmas Gift
By TeriG
She never lets up, Neville thought as Gran yet again launched into a tirade about how he should be telling all his school chums about how his parents had sacrificed so much to defy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Neville tried not to roll his eyes at the old woman, who never let him get a word in edge-wise about why he never told anyone, or even why he felt he shouldn't. In the end he just tuned Gran out. At least until she noticed and demanded to know why he was ignoring her.
"Honestly, Neville," she would say. "Just how you ended up in Gryffindor is beyond me. Get a backbone, boy. You should be proud of your parents, not ashamed of them!"
"I'm not ashamed of them," he would insist, but it always seemed to fall on deaf ears.
No, he was never ashamed of them. He just...missed them, if anyone could understand that.
"Neville? Neville?" Gran was saying now. "Have you been listening to a word I've said?"
"Yes...," the boy started.
"I want to know, of all people you have kept the sacrifice of your parents from, why Harry Potter? Of all people, he should know!"
"Gran...," Neville started again.
"I just can't believe...blah, blah, blah..." Neville tuned her out again.
This went on all the way home.
There were times when Neville truly hated Harry Potter. He was "The Boy Who Lived". Whose parents were murdered by You-Know-Who and who survived being murdered himself. He was raised by Muggles, who were quite nasty to him, sure, but when he returned to the Wizarding World, he was taken into everyone's hearts. He was famous, popular, noticed.
Neville felt in those moments that he was "The Boy Whom Everyone Forgot". Few knew, and fewer remembered, the distinguished status his parents held and the sacrifice they made, or even that there were worse things than being orphaned and raised by Muggles. To know every minute of every day and to see it at times of the year when everyone else is happy; to witness it yourself, the damage done by the enemy. To look at the once strong man who was your father and see nothing - just a husk who had to have someone wipe the drool from his lips, staring into nothingness. To see your mother pick at things obsessively, clutch at things desperately and recoil as if pained when you tried to hug her...wanted to hug her... needed to hug her. Then to only have moments, rare and precious moments, when you think she realises you are her child....fleeting moments when she'd reach out and think of you as more than a familiar stranger.
No one could understand that kind of pain. Not even Harry Potter. Not really.
Yeah, sometimes Neville hated Harry Potter. If Harry hadn't have destroyed You-Know-Who, Neville would have had parents.
But those moments of hatred soon passed and in all honesty Neville rather liked Harry for the very things he at times hated him for. He felt a kinship with the other boy. Both of them babies when their parents were taken from them. Both of them raised by relatives who had little use for them. Both of them lonely in so many ways, but Neville was just less in the limelight.
But still there were people who noticed him, for good or ill. For the good he was grateful, but the ill, well, even after third year DADA Neville still couldn't get over his fear of Snape.
When Neville finally reached home and Gran told Uncle Algie the news of his parents' doings and Neville's friends showing up, his Uncle blatantly said, "Mother, leave the poor boy alone. He's got enough to deal with."
"May I go to my room?" Neville suddenly asked.
Gran turned to look at him as if she had just noticed he was there.
"Of course, dear," she said, simply.
Uncle Algie followed him to the stairs. "Ah, don't let the old nag get to you, Nevvie," he said with a wink.
"I heard that!" Neville heard Gan shriek. He grinned at his uncle and went up to his room.
Neville's room would have been considered Spartan if it wasn't for the plants. Neville loved plants. It was something he understood; something that responded to him; something he could do. Other than "the jungle" as Gran affectionately called it, Neville had a dresser, a bed, a nightstand, a desk, a chair and one little mirror Gran felt he needed to check his appearance before he went anywhere.
Not that he used the mirror much. No matter what Neville did, he always looked the same mousy, round, chubby boy he'd always been. He actually looked remarkably like his mother, although she had been considered pretty. He certainly did not inherit any of his father's dashing ways. Mind you, his own gentle manner and boyish shyness and ways appealed to some girls and it wasn't as if he couldn't get a date if he really wanted one. But more often than not, he really didn't want them. He had enough to deal with without that complication.
Neville slowly circled his room, checking his greenery, talking to them (plants loved noise), pruning one here and there and making sure they didn't need watering. The end of his short route took him to his desk and it was here the decided to sit down.
On the desk was a rare plant Gran had managed to find for him. It was his favourite one because the flowers that sprouted from it year round were a dark pink - a pink that made him think of his mother as she was in the photo that sat next to it.
Neville had discovered the flowers had a beautiful scent that seemed to calm the mind in times of trouble. He still had to find out its name, and some of its uses, but rare or not he found a way to care for it and it flourished. Gran was proud of him. Neville knew she really was. He figured he could have just asked Professor Sprout about the plant, but he wanted to find out about it on his own. For the moment, he named after his mother - Alice.
The photo Neville had of his parents was their wedding photo. There they were, before he was even a thought or expectation, his mother glowing with joy, his father proud. To Neville his mother was beautiful. Her clear brown eyes, much like his own, sparkling. The couple in the photo often held hands, embraced and sometimes his father would kiss his mother passionately. When Neville was a child, he thought it icky and would turn the photo away. Now he found it comforting. They had loved each other so much. So much they stood by each other to the very end.
And Neville NEVER doubted they had loved him too. When the Death Eaters attacked, he had also been with his parents. His mother had hidden him, kept him safe. Neville remembered nothing although he had tried. Not even in his dreams could he remember. But his mother thought to save him, much like Harry's mother thought to give her life for her son too.
Neville reached out to touch the picture frame lightly while he thought of what happened at St. Mungo's today...the one moment he caught Harry's eyes, daring him to laugh, and found that there was understanding. A moment of bonding, of knowing. It lacked the pity in Hermione's eyes, or the shock and fear in Ron's. Neville knew truly Harry understood. To lose so much and to never know your real parents.
Yeah, sometimes Neville did hate Harry Potter, but not now, not at that moment when their eyes met. There was no pity, no fear, just an acknowledgement and understanding.
He knew most of his friends would feel sorry for him if he told them. They'd not talk about their lives freely, the fun over vacations. Despite Neville's own pain, he needed to know there was joy and happiness, that families were meant to be happy; to pretend his life was like theirs. Reality often hit home, like it did with Harry, Neville was sure, but at least his friends had homes, and mothers and fathers and siblings to fight with. At least his parents' sacrifice was not in vain.
Neville smiled a bit as his mother's picture blew kisses at him, his father waving. At least there they knew him to be someone they loved. Neville shyly waved back and then took out the sweet wrappers he had put in his pocket earlier at St. Mungo's.
They were from his mother's favourite sweet, Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Every time he went to visit he would bring her some. She always ate them like some starving creature, but it seemed she enjoyed them, even if they hadn't been meant to be swallowed. Sometimes, just sometimes, in those rare moments when she'd realise Neville was something more than a familiar stranger, when she'd look at him intensely and not pull away when he reached towards her, she'd reach out herself and give him one of the wrappers.
Today had been the first time she had followed him out to give him one though.
These moments, so precious to Neville, the boy clung to with all his heart. Those were the moments he treasured and because of this, these little crumpled sweet wrappers became like gold to him. Precious treasures. Today she had given him three. That was very uncommon, but each one was a precious gift and Neville slowly and deliberately flattened each one on the desk before him and laid them out next to each other. Once they were neatly arranged, he just looked at them.
His mother was thin and gaunt now, hair white and flyaway. Neville closed his eyes and tried to picture her healed, lucid and instead of a wrapper she reached out to take him into her arms.
Neville sighed and opened his eyes again. He reached next to him to open a desk drawer and took out an old long battered box. It had been the box that once held his father's wand - the wand which was now his. He opened it up. It was full of little flattened candy wrappers collected over his lifetime.
One by one Neville picked up each wrapper, kissed it and put it carefully into the box. Once they were in, he gently covered them with the lid and put the box away in his desk.
"Neville! It's suppertime!" He heard Gran call.
"Coming!" Neville called back. Before he left though, he looked at the photo again, his parents beaming at him. He smiled, waved and once he heard Gran call again, he hurried out of his room and downstairs.
The parents he left behind in the photo hugged each other again.
It's been something that's sat in my brain for a while. I finally decided to put in on paper and get it out. I want to work on it a bit more...but this is close to where I want it to be. :D