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FIC: Heights (Neville, Gen)
Title: Heights
Author: shiiki
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neville Longbottom, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 447
Summary: Neville approaches flying lessons with dread.
Notes: Inspired by a re-read of chapter 9 of PS/SS.
Neville hated heights.
He remembered the feeling of swinging from his ankle upside down, Great-Uncle Algie's leathery grasp the only thing that kept him from falling. The whole time he'd wanted to cry out, but the terror stuck in his throat and stole his voice. The fall itself had actually been less frightening than the time he'd spent dangling. It had been over in no time, and he'd bounced, and the awful experience had turned into a celebration of his finally displaying some magical ability.
But those long minutes of hanging in the air stuck with him. And ever since the notice about flying lessons had gone up, the terrifying experience of being high up with nothing substantial to hold him there kept coming back to him in nightmares.
Neville listened desperately as Hermione recited every tip she'd gleaned from her library books, but none of the advice seemed to specify how to deal with hanging on to a thin stick of wood as you dangled from it a hundred feet above the ground.
Friday afternoon arrived with unforgiving speed. Neville trooped out reluctantly with the rest of his year to the grounds where Madam Hooch and the school brooms awaited them. They looked even more thin and flimsy than Neville had imagined. The Slytherins were already standing by their brooms, chatting easily among themselves. No one else seemed afraid of the task that lay ahead, which made Neville even more miserable.
Madam Hooch was the brisk, no-nonsense type. She ordered them all to take their places without preamble, and barked out an instruction to call for their brooms.
With a great sense of foreboding, Neville put his hand out. 'Up,' he said, hoping no one would notice how his arm was shaking. The broom stayed put, which was fine by him. Perhaps if he couldn't get it to jump up the way some of the others' had, he could just spend the lesson working on that. For the first time, he was happy to be the dunce of the class, if it meant he could stay on solid ground.
Unfortunately, Madam Hooch had them all move on, irrespective of their success in getting their brooms to respond. In no time at all, they'd all mounted their brooms, gripping hold the way Madam Hooch had shown them. It was time.
Neville gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he was a Gryffindor. He tightened his grip on his broomstick. His palms felt slippery against the wood and his legs nervous and jerky. There was a loud rushing in his ears. It drowned out Madam Hooch's countdown.
I can do this, Neville told himself, and he pushed off.
Author: shiiki
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Neville Longbottom, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 447
Summary: Neville approaches flying lessons with dread.
Notes: Inspired by a re-read of chapter 9 of PS/SS.
Neville hated heights.
He remembered the feeling of swinging from his ankle upside down, Great-Uncle Algie's leathery grasp the only thing that kept him from falling. The whole time he'd wanted to cry out, but the terror stuck in his throat and stole his voice. The fall itself had actually been less frightening than the time he'd spent dangling. It had been over in no time, and he'd bounced, and the awful experience had turned into a celebration of his finally displaying some magical ability.
But those long minutes of hanging in the air stuck with him. And ever since the notice about flying lessons had gone up, the terrifying experience of being high up with nothing substantial to hold him there kept coming back to him in nightmares.
Neville listened desperately as Hermione recited every tip she'd gleaned from her library books, but none of the advice seemed to specify how to deal with hanging on to a thin stick of wood as you dangled from it a hundred feet above the ground.
Friday afternoon arrived with unforgiving speed. Neville trooped out reluctantly with the rest of his year to the grounds where Madam Hooch and the school brooms awaited them. They looked even more thin and flimsy than Neville had imagined. The Slytherins were already standing by their brooms, chatting easily among themselves. No one else seemed afraid of the task that lay ahead, which made Neville even more miserable.
Madam Hooch was the brisk, no-nonsense type. She ordered them all to take their places without preamble, and barked out an instruction to call for their brooms.
With a great sense of foreboding, Neville put his hand out. 'Up,' he said, hoping no one would notice how his arm was shaking. The broom stayed put, which was fine by him. Perhaps if he couldn't get it to jump up the way some of the others' had, he could just spend the lesson working on that. For the first time, he was happy to be the dunce of the class, if it meant he could stay on solid ground.
Unfortunately, Madam Hooch had them all move on, irrespective of their success in getting their brooms to respond. In no time at all, they'd all mounted their brooms, gripping hold the way Madam Hooch had shown them. It was time.
Neville gritted his teeth and reminded himself that he was a Gryffindor. He tightened his grip on his broomstick. His palms felt slippery against the wood and his legs nervous and jerky. There was a loud rushing in his ears. It drowned out Madam Hooch's countdown.
I can do this, Neville told himself, and he pushed off.