Real Quick Post
I'm just posting these two short little random Neville fics before I'm off to go see the Pirates of the Caribbean movie, and hopefully the Harry Potter trailer with it.
These first two kind of go together. In fact, they might as well be part of the same thing.
“Honestly, Neville, did you even try to say no?” his Gran asked, grabbing his arm and pulling him back into the shop. “Sometimes I wonder if you were only placed in Gryffindor because your father had been.”
Sometimes Neville wondered that, himself. It wasn't as though the Sorting Hat had been particularly quick in placing him.
“My grandson wishes to return this broom,” his Gran said, pulling it out of Neville's grasp.
“Why?” the shopkeeper asked. “It's a lovely broom. Not as flashy as the Firebolt, but it's solid and steady, and has good speed for the price.”
“Yes, but my grandson is not looking for a broom.”
“He bought it, didn't he?” the shopkeeper said, waving his hand at Neville. Neville looked at a display of Quiddith pennants so he wouldn't have to see the look his Gran was surely giving him.
“He bought it only because you browbeat him into it,” she said. “I assure you, he doesn't need a broom. He is not skilled at flying.”
“Gran, I'm not-”
“All the more reason for him to get some practice in,” the shopkeeper said.
“I am returning this broom you forced my grandson to buy,” said his Gran. “And that is the end of this discussion.”
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“I don't understand how you can have so many accidents with your cauldrons,” Neville's Gran said, as they entered the store for a new one. “Perhaps the quality is declining. Do any of your classmates constantly melt their cauldrons?”
“No,” Neville said.
“And how many have you melted?”
“Five and a half,” Neville said softly, staring at a gleaming cauldron with a feeling of disgust.
“Your father never so much as cracked a cauldron. Of course, he never had nearly so much trouble with potions as you seem to.”
“He didn't have Snape,” Neville mumbled. His Gran turned on him.
“What was that, Neville?”
“Nthing,” Neville said. “I just . . . maybe we should take this cauldron?” He pointed out the cheapest cauldron in the shop. His Gran frowned.
“That one won't last a day,” she said, turning to one which was guaranteed to stand up to the strongest potions. “Your mother wasn't bad at potions, either,” she said, reading the price tag.
“I know, Gran,” Neville said. “I know.”
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And this one I've actually posted over at TBN, so most everyone has probably already seen it.
He could still remember the first time he'd truly understood the truth about his parents. He had been very young then, and it had not been the first time he had been told the truth. But until that moment, which stayed in his memory like a scar, he hadn't understood what they were telling them. He hadn't wanted to.
They would never get better. They would never be well. They would never be the people he barely remembered. Wishing would not help anything, no matter how hard he wished.
There had been crying, then. And begging. Begging that he not go see them because he didn't want to, and it wouldn't do any good even if he did. But of course he had gone, as there was no arguing with his Gran, and crying and begging were even worse than arguing, in her eyes. He rather thought she'd have preferred it if he had argued, rather than begged. But he was afraid. Afraid to see them now that he knew the worst of it. Before, when he had gone, he had thought that they would get better, would look at him and smile, and call him by his name; Neville.
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More later, or not. I don't know.