Bonus Content Fic: Christmas After the Closed Ward
Title: Christmas After the Closed Ward
Username: ncp
Pairing: None
Type: Gen
Prompt #: Own prompt
Rating: R
Word Count: 1154
Warnings/content: brief masturbation? it’s not even remotely sexy
Summary: Harry wasn’t the only one with anger issues during his Fifth year. After running into his friends at St. Mungo’s on Christmas Day, Neville needs to relieve some stress.
Notes: Thanks so much to shy_of_reality for letting me clean up this dusty old fic and submit it for the Bonus round when RL killed my assigned prompt. Thanks also to my beta, lash_larue, who is always full of wonderful insights and suggestions.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters/references are property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement is intended.
"AAAAARGH!!!" Neville tore the covers off his bed, balled them up, and tossed them on the floor. Panting, he looked around his room for something else to throw, or hit, or hurt. His old stuffed puffskein hit the wall, followed by the toy broomstick that had been gathering dust since his fifth birthday. Both of them fell to the floor with an unsatisfying thump. Fuck Ron Weasley and fuck Gran and fuck Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange. He flung Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean at the door hard enough to break its binding. He would not cry. He would not cry. Crying was for Hufflepuffs and ickle Firsties, not the son of heroic martyrs.
"Merry fucking Christmas, Neville," he growled. "Here, have another fucking plant," he swept his new potted Flitterbloom off the side table, "and let’s spend the day at the hospital with people who don’t know what fucking day it is," he kicked at the shards of broken flowerpot, "or who the fuck you are, and then," he stomped on the plant for good measure, "just to make the day extra special, let’s make all your friends feel even more sorry for you than they already do!" Kneeling on his bed, he punched his pillow ineffectually, punctuating each blow with a muffled grunt that accomplished precisely nothing.
Bad enough that he was so pathetic at Defense that no one in the DA would partner with him. Bad enough that every girl he fancied looked at him like he was flobberworm dung. Bad enough that he couldn’t even get through a single Potions class without Hermione’s help. Now everyone would know his deepest, darkest secret and pity for him for something that had happened to him as a baby. And Gran had the nerve to think he was ashamed?
"And they weren’t both Aurors, Mum was an Unspeakable," he called out, knowing Gran couldn’t hear him. Gran had never cared about Mum. All Gran cared about was letting everyone know that he wasn’t as good as Dad, and he never would be. Dad would have said "I don’t want roast ham for dinner, I’ve hated it since I was seven." Dad would have gotten presents from all his millions of friends, not just three ancient relatives who saw him as an obligation. Dad would have told her off when she humiliated him in front of the only girls who had ever been nice to him.
Surveying the mess he had just made, he decided he needed to relax before he completely destroyed his room. The last time he’d been this angry, Harry and Ron had barely been able to stop him from beating Malfoy to a bloody pulp and earning a month of detentions from Umbridge. Instead, he’d skipped dinner to transplant Fanged Geraniums in the greenhouses. But Gran probably wouldn’t let him Floo to Uncle Algie’s house on bloody Christmas Day just to fling Dragon dung around the conservatory. In Third Year, Vicky Frobisher had offered to lend him her broom when she discovered Neville bloodying his knuckles on the Owlery walls after that Howler from Gran. "Flying calms me right down when I’m feeling that way," she’d explained. "Less likely to end up in the Hospital Wing too." Neville hadn’t wanted to add to his mortification by explaining that a broken hand was much safer for him than falling fifty feet from a broom. That was the first time he’d escaped to the greenhouses and realized that he could take his shame and anger out on the dangerous plants that lived there. Girls like Frobisher would never follow him into a dirty, smelly greenhouse. Girls like Frobisher liked Quidditch. All the prettiest girls in school liked Quidditch, and the only thing he was good at was gardening.
Fortunately, he had recently discovered an even better method than gardening to take his mind off his troubles. He unbuttoned his trousers and reached inside and thought about Gwenog Jones. No, Cho Chang. No, Katie Bell. Yeah, Katie Bell, her hair all windswept, standing at the foot of his bed. Katie Bell, removing her Quidditch uniform piece by piece. Katie Bell, naked, crawling over him and purring "I’ve always liked you, Neville. You have such strong hands."
Ten minutes later, he was done having imaginary sex with an imaginary Katie Bell, not that it had helped him feel all that much better. He was still fat and pathetic, and now he was also an object of pity. No girl, let alone a sexy Quidditch player, would ever give him a second look. He cleaned himself up, re-did his trousers and glared at his bedsheets. Crups and kneazles. No wonder girls his age never took him seriously. Only a baby would have crups and kneazles chasing each other all over his sheets and kid’s toys still cluttering up his shelves. Dean had autographed pictures of his favorite Muggle football players. Ron probably went blind every summer from all the orange Cannons posters plastering his walls. He’d seen Seamus’s life-size, impossibly cool cutouts of the Weird Sisters with his own eyes last year. And he, Neville Longbottom, had let his grandmother decorate his room with twee little animals and things. Even if Seamus wasn’t being a complete plonker about Harry and You-Know-Who, Neville would be too embarrassed to invite him to visit.
He stuck his head out his door. "GRAN! I want to redecorate my room!"
A frazzled-looking Gran walked out of the kitchen, knife in one hand, wand in the other. "Don’t shout, Neville."
I’ll shout if I fucking want to, he thought, but lowered his voice anyway. "Er, can I redecorate my room?"
"Redecorate? Neville, I don’t have the time to think about that right now. Algie and Enid will be here in two hours, and I’m still making dessert." She half-smiled at him. "I am making a trifle, how does that sound?"
Mollified by the idea of his favorite dessert, Neville calmed down. "Yeah, not right now, obviously. But next week can we go to Hogsmeade? I want to get a Hobgoblins poster and a new wireless. And new bedsheets, but not Gryffindor colors. Oh, and I need new plants for Trevor’s terrarium."
"We can go next Tuesday. Come help me with dinner, and tell me about the Granger girl."
"Merlin! How many times have I told you, Gran? We’re just friends!" Realizing that no good could come of spending time alone in a kitchen with Gran, he went looking for a broom to sweep up the mess in his room. And a flowerpot, because if Gran thought he couldn’t even take care of a bloody houseplant, he’d never hear the end of it.
Username: ncp
Pairing: None
Type: Gen
Prompt #: Own prompt
Rating: R
Word Count: 1154
Warnings/content: brief masturbation? it’s not even remotely sexy
Summary: Harry wasn’t the only one with anger issues during his Fifth year. After running into his friends at St. Mungo’s on Christmas Day, Neville needs to relieve some stress.
Notes: Thanks so much to shy_of_reality for letting me clean up this dusty old fic and submit it for the Bonus round when RL killed my assigned prompt. Thanks also to my beta, lash_larue, who is always full of wonderful insights and suggestions.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters/references are property of JK Rowling and associates. No copyright infringement is intended.
"AAAAARGH!!!" Neville tore the covers off his bed, balled them up, and tossed them on the floor. Panting, he looked around his room for something else to throw, or hit, or hurt. His old stuffed puffskein hit the wall, followed by the toy broomstick that had been gathering dust since his fifth birthday. Both of them fell to the floor with an unsatisfying thump. Fuck Ron Weasley and fuck Gran and fuck Bellatrix Fucking Lestrange. He flung Magical Water Plants of the Mediterranean at the door hard enough to break its binding. He would not cry. He would not cry. Crying was for Hufflepuffs and ickle Firsties, not the son of heroic martyrs.
"Merry fucking Christmas, Neville," he growled. "Here, have another fucking plant," he swept his new potted Flitterbloom off the side table, "and let’s spend the day at the hospital with people who don’t know what fucking day it is," he kicked at the shards of broken flowerpot, "or who the fuck you are, and then," he stomped on the plant for good measure, "just to make the day extra special, let’s make all your friends feel even more sorry for you than they already do!" Kneeling on his bed, he punched his pillow ineffectually, punctuating each blow with a muffled grunt that accomplished precisely nothing.
Bad enough that he was so pathetic at Defense that no one in the DA would partner with him. Bad enough that every girl he fancied looked at him like he was flobberworm dung. Bad enough that he couldn’t even get through a single Potions class without Hermione’s help. Now everyone would know his deepest, darkest secret and pity for him for something that had happened to him as a baby. And Gran had the nerve to think he was ashamed?
"And they weren’t both Aurors, Mum was an Unspeakable," he called out, knowing Gran couldn’t hear him. Gran had never cared about Mum. All Gran cared about was letting everyone know that he wasn’t as good as Dad, and he never would be. Dad would have said "I don’t want roast ham for dinner, I’ve hated it since I was seven." Dad would have gotten presents from all his millions of friends, not just three ancient relatives who saw him as an obligation. Dad would have told her off when she humiliated him in front of the only girls who had ever been nice to him.
Surveying the mess he had just made, he decided he needed to relax before he completely destroyed his room. The last time he’d been this angry, Harry and Ron had barely been able to stop him from beating Malfoy to a bloody pulp and earning a month of detentions from Umbridge. Instead, he’d skipped dinner to transplant Fanged Geraniums in the greenhouses. But Gran probably wouldn’t let him Floo to Uncle Algie’s house on bloody Christmas Day just to fling Dragon dung around the conservatory. In Third Year, Vicky Frobisher had offered to lend him her broom when she discovered Neville bloodying his knuckles on the Owlery walls after that Howler from Gran. "Flying calms me right down when I’m feeling that way," she’d explained. "Less likely to end up in the Hospital Wing too." Neville hadn’t wanted to add to his mortification by explaining that a broken hand was much safer for him than falling fifty feet from a broom. That was the first time he’d escaped to the greenhouses and realized that he could take his shame and anger out on the dangerous plants that lived there. Girls like Frobisher would never follow him into a dirty, smelly greenhouse. Girls like Frobisher liked Quidditch. All the prettiest girls in school liked Quidditch, and the only thing he was good at was gardening.
Fortunately, he had recently discovered an even better method than gardening to take his mind off his troubles. He unbuttoned his trousers and reached inside and thought about Gwenog Jones. No, Cho Chang. No, Katie Bell. Yeah, Katie Bell, her hair all windswept, standing at the foot of his bed. Katie Bell, removing her Quidditch uniform piece by piece. Katie Bell, naked, crawling over him and purring "I’ve always liked you, Neville. You have such strong hands."
Ten minutes later, he was done having imaginary sex with an imaginary Katie Bell, not that it had helped him feel all that much better. He was still fat and pathetic, and now he was also an object of pity. No girl, let alone a sexy Quidditch player, would ever give him a second look. He cleaned himself up, re-did his trousers and glared at his bedsheets. Crups and kneazles. No wonder girls his age never took him seriously. Only a baby would have crups and kneazles chasing each other all over his sheets and kid’s toys still cluttering up his shelves. Dean had autographed pictures of his favorite Muggle football players. Ron probably went blind every summer from all the orange Cannons posters plastering his walls. He’d seen Seamus’s life-size, impossibly cool cutouts of the Weird Sisters with his own eyes last year. And he, Neville Longbottom, had let his grandmother decorate his room with twee little animals and things. Even if Seamus wasn’t being a complete plonker about Harry and You-Know-Who, Neville would be too embarrassed to invite him to visit.
He stuck his head out his door. "GRAN! I want to redecorate my room!"
A frazzled-looking Gran walked out of the kitchen, knife in one hand, wand in the other. "Don’t shout, Neville."
I’ll shout if I fucking want to, he thought, but lowered his voice anyway. "Er, can I redecorate my room?"
"Redecorate? Neville, I don’t have the time to think about that right now. Algie and Enid will be here in two hours, and I’m still making dessert." She half-smiled at him. "I am making a trifle, how does that sound?"
Mollified by the idea of his favorite dessert, Neville calmed down. "Yeah, not right now, obviously. But next week can we go to Hogsmeade? I want to get a Hobgoblins poster and a new wireless. And new bedsheets, but not Gryffindor colors. Oh, and I need new plants for Trevor’s terrarium."
"We can go next Tuesday. Come help me with dinner, and tell me about the Granger girl."
"Merlin! How many times have I told you, Gran? We’re just friends!" Realizing that no good could come of spending time alone in a kitchen with Gran, he went looking for a broom to sweep up the mess in his room. And a flowerpot, because if Gran thought he couldn’t even take care of a bloody houseplant, he’d never hear the end of it.