Fic: Definition//Revolution
Title: Definition//Revolution
Author: Seren/ran_huo
Rating: K+ for one curse word.
Summary: Your revolution will not be started with the words Crucio or Imperio, but with Hey, Parvati, how are you? Neville Longbottom finds his own way to fight back.
Genre: Hopefic.
Warnings: None, except post-HBP.
A/N: For the Bathroom Fellowship: luciademedici, stereotype_vamp, and unperfectwolf, for putting up with me at Lumos. Un'beta'd.
War: noun. A state of open, armed, often prolonged conflict carried on between nations, states, or parties.
This is all very foreign territory to you.
The War, capital W, has started, and you're at home, staring at nothing in particular. You're worried. Well, scared might be a better word for it. Your friends are gone, and it's just you and Gran. You hate it, because Hogwarts meant you were Neville, not an appendage to the woman who raised you.
You think you should be doing something, but what can you do? Sending batches of dangerous plant life, no matter how endearing you find your pets, probably won't be appreciated at this time.
So you sit and stare out the window, and you wonder. What is it that you can do, to help the war effort? You're clumsy, and you've never been able to recognise your own talent, have you?
The worst part of the war, you muse, is the loneliness. Not belonging anywhere. Sometimes you put on your Hogwarts robes and sit at your desk and read your textbooks, and for a little while, you can pretend you're a world away; you imagine that Hermione is patiently waiting for you to finish, that Ron is whipping Harry at chess, and that Ginny is peeking over your shoulder and whispering jokes and gossip in your ear.
You miss the companionship. The loneliness, and the feelings of worthlessness, pile on your fair head until it's hard to breathe. You don't know your own merit, the real you that makes Hermione Granger push you as hard as she can. You don't see that you have the potential to help change all this.
It's July, now, and your hands are idle. Your plants have been cared for, and Gran is off doing her thing, and the view out the window hasn't changed. Your fingers are itching, but you're not quite seventeen yet and the way the Ministry has been going, you think it's best not to tempt the fates.
The world is darker, now. Everything is subdued, bright colours and lives faded into a more duller life. The War changes everything. It makes you angry.
What makes it worse is the fact that it's so subtle that no-one seems to notice that the world has been bled dry of life and glory and little things like laughter or joy. It's stagnant. The world is waiting for the checkmate.
Revolution: noun. A sudden or momentous change in a situation.
You need to do something. To fight the war, or to just fight the passing time, to keep from dropping from loneliness to despair.
So you grab a piece of paper, and before you realise exactly what you're doing, you're writing to someone you know. Just a letter, a how-to-do.
You don't realise it- can't realise it- but this is your way of fighting back, of striking a blow. You remember a discussion you had once, with Hermione, about war. She told you that war is really fought over words; an insult, a declaration, a harsh word muttered to spark a spell.
Your revolution will not be started with the words Crucio or Imperio, but with Hey, Parvati, how are you?
You write letters to everyone you can think of. Housemates. Members of the D.A. People you met puttering around the greenhouses of Hogwarts. You blow through stacks of paper, sending out greetings. You reach out, and every letter you write reminds the receiver that there's something out there besides blood and pain and death.
You even write letters to the staff of Hogwarts. You send hellos and how are you's and tiding of good health.
Soon, the letters trickle back in.
Response: noun. A reaction, as that of an organism or a mechanism, to a specific stimulus.
You don't know it, and they won't ever tell you, but when the Patil twins receive their letters, Parvati smiles, and Padma cries, and both are in the height of their beauty. They write you back.
They all write you back. Some send little tokens, like random ribbons or things from their room. McGonagall sends you a tin of biscuits and some Transfiguration notes, things you can practise once you've turned seventeen. And when you do, the first thing you do is copy the notes and send them out with your weekly letters. In your daily writings, you mention other people, the other responses you've gotten and the news that you've heard.
Soon, everyone is writing to everyone else, and the owl post is going mad. The Death Eaters have a new enemy to tackle, one they don't quite know how to take on. They have teenaged wizards hell-bent on swapping brownie recipes, nail-colouring charms, potions notes, and the world in general. Life continues. So you and your friends keep on living.
Defiance: noun. The act or an example of defying; bold resistance to an opposing force or authority.
They want you to stop.
Not just the Death Eaters. Society.
They say that this isn't the time to send letters about the latest colours for colouring your bathroom, or gossiping about a music group. It's too irreverent. Impious. Blasphemous.
You, however, know better, and there's not a soul that's going to stop you. Not Gram, not the Minister, not even Bellatrix Lestrange. You hold on to what you've started, and you defy their expectations of you. You're not going to stop because you're scared. You're going to keep going even if you are scared.
You're not going to bow down to threats. And neither are your friends. If anything, the letters increase. Oh, they talk about the war. But when Susan Bones writes her letters, there's stains on the parchment because she's making her supper at the same time. Terry Boot and Theodore Nott start a long-distance chess match. McGonagall still sends you biscuits, and Luna sometimes asks if you wouldn't mind looking over her Herbology papers.
But what if the Death Eaters see your notes?
Let them.
Let them see that everyone is going on with their lives. Let them see that everyone is affected, but you- you won't back down. You'll keep writing if everyone else stops. And the fact that everyone else knows that you won't stop gives them the strength to keep communicating, to open their windows and doors and to go out into the sunlight.
You don't look out the window anymore. There's too much life to be had in these precious letters. Your days are full now. You plant and you write, you eat, you floo to see friends. There's even a study group now; the students and the teachers have taken the initiative of getting together and continuing their lessons. Education does not cease because some asshole in an outdated robe wants to rain on your parade.
They think this is defiance? They won't know defiance until someone takes the iniative and starts mailing large packages of candy, papers, and anything else they can find.
Resistance: noun. The act or an instance of resisting or the capacity to resist.
The night after Terry Boot is murdered, the sky glows with the combined light of dozens of candles, flickering from windowsills and doorsteps.
The candles burn every night thereafter, so brightly that they leave no shadows for Dementors and Death Eaters to hide in.
Faith: noun. Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.
You don't get a lot of news, and sometimes it makes you nervous. And people seem to think that you'd be the first one to get said news.
You do get some, more than most, but you're not stupid. Six years in friendship with Hermione Granger is enough to give you the smarts not to pass anything incriminating on.
Yet you soldier on, and good or bad, you keep the faith. First it's just you, and then Luna, and soon every letter that the Death Eaters find is full of determination. This will pass. You will survive, and not only that, but you will persevere. The death count rises, but the letters- your letters- are unflagging and unceasing.
The enemy wants to break your hope.
They don't understand the faith that comes with six years of love, companionship, trust, and strength.
So every day, between sunrise and sunset, you write your letters in your boxy, untidy scrawl, determined to keep everyone's spirits up. And as you work towards that, others join the fight. They may take Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade, but they can't take your spirit, your hands, and your words. They threaten you, and all you love.
The quiet strength that almost no-one saw for six years is most evident now. No-one questions your right to be in Gryffindor.
When you first sat down and wrote your first letter, you had no idea that it would lead to this. Up at all hours, responding as letters come in, sending off seeds and recipes and articles torn out of magazines. You rarely see the effects of what you've done, of what you've done for your friends and for the war effort. You haven't seen it, and you most likely never will.
You had wanted to do something. You had wanted to contribute to the destruction of the dark side, you wanted to fight it with what little strength you perceive yourself to have. You wanted to do something, anything, and even now, you think you've failed.
But that's only because people like you never really see what they do for everyone. When you glance in the mirror, you don't notice what everyone can see, as clear as day.
You don't see yourself for what you've done.
Because you, Neville Longbottom, are saving the world.
Hero: noun. Someone who fights for a cause.
Author: Seren/ran_huo
Rating: K+ for one curse word.
Summary: Your revolution will not be started with the words Crucio or Imperio, but with Hey, Parvati, how are you? Neville Longbottom finds his own way to fight back.
Genre: Hopefic.
Warnings: None, except post-HBP.
A/N: For the Bathroom Fellowship: luciademedici, stereotype_vamp, and unperfectwolf, for putting up with me at Lumos. Un'beta'd.
War: noun. A state of open, armed, often prolonged conflict carried on between nations, states, or parties.
This is all very foreign territory to you.
The War, capital W, has started, and you're at home, staring at nothing in particular. You're worried. Well, scared might be a better word for it. Your friends are gone, and it's just you and Gran. You hate it, because Hogwarts meant you were Neville, not an appendage to the woman who raised you.
You think you should be doing something, but what can you do? Sending batches of dangerous plant life, no matter how endearing you find your pets, probably won't be appreciated at this time.
So you sit and stare out the window, and you wonder. What is it that you can do, to help the war effort? You're clumsy, and you've never been able to recognise your own talent, have you?
The worst part of the war, you muse, is the loneliness. Not belonging anywhere. Sometimes you put on your Hogwarts robes and sit at your desk and read your textbooks, and for a little while, you can pretend you're a world away; you imagine that Hermione is patiently waiting for you to finish, that Ron is whipping Harry at chess, and that Ginny is peeking over your shoulder and whispering jokes and gossip in your ear.
You miss the companionship. The loneliness, and the feelings of worthlessness, pile on your fair head until it's hard to breathe. You don't know your own merit, the real you that makes Hermione Granger push you as hard as she can. You don't see that you have the potential to help change all this.
It's July, now, and your hands are idle. Your plants have been cared for, and Gran is off doing her thing, and the view out the window hasn't changed. Your fingers are itching, but you're not quite seventeen yet and the way the Ministry has been going, you think it's best not to tempt the fates.
The world is darker, now. Everything is subdued, bright colours and lives faded into a more duller life. The War changes everything. It makes you angry.
What makes it worse is the fact that it's so subtle that no-one seems to notice that the world has been bled dry of life and glory and little things like laughter or joy. It's stagnant. The world is waiting for the checkmate.
Revolution: noun. A sudden or momentous change in a situation.
You need to do something. To fight the war, or to just fight the passing time, to keep from dropping from loneliness to despair.
So you grab a piece of paper, and before you realise exactly what you're doing, you're writing to someone you know. Just a letter, a how-to-do.
You don't realise it- can't realise it- but this is your way of fighting back, of striking a blow. You remember a discussion you had once, with Hermione, about war. She told you that war is really fought over words; an insult, a declaration, a harsh word muttered to spark a spell.
Your revolution will not be started with the words Crucio or Imperio, but with Hey, Parvati, how are you?
You write letters to everyone you can think of. Housemates. Members of the D.A. People you met puttering around the greenhouses of Hogwarts. You blow through stacks of paper, sending out greetings. You reach out, and every letter you write reminds the receiver that there's something out there besides blood and pain and death.
You even write letters to the staff of Hogwarts. You send hellos and how are you's and tiding of good health.
Soon, the letters trickle back in.
Response: noun. A reaction, as that of an organism or a mechanism, to a specific stimulus.
You don't know it, and they won't ever tell you, but when the Patil twins receive their letters, Parvati smiles, and Padma cries, and both are in the height of their beauty. They write you back.
They all write you back. Some send little tokens, like random ribbons or things from their room. McGonagall sends you a tin of biscuits and some Transfiguration notes, things you can practise once you've turned seventeen. And when you do, the first thing you do is copy the notes and send them out with your weekly letters. In your daily writings, you mention other people, the other responses you've gotten and the news that you've heard.
Soon, everyone is writing to everyone else, and the owl post is going mad. The Death Eaters have a new enemy to tackle, one they don't quite know how to take on. They have teenaged wizards hell-bent on swapping brownie recipes, nail-colouring charms, potions notes, and the world in general. Life continues. So you and your friends keep on living.
Defiance: noun. The act or an example of defying; bold resistance to an opposing force or authority.
They want you to stop.
Not just the Death Eaters. Society.
They say that this isn't the time to send letters about the latest colours for colouring your bathroom, or gossiping about a music group. It's too irreverent. Impious. Blasphemous.
You, however, know better, and there's not a soul that's going to stop you. Not Gram, not the Minister, not even Bellatrix Lestrange. You hold on to what you've started, and you defy their expectations of you. You're not going to stop because you're scared. You're going to keep going even if you are scared.
You're not going to bow down to threats. And neither are your friends. If anything, the letters increase. Oh, they talk about the war. But when Susan Bones writes her letters, there's stains on the parchment because she's making her supper at the same time. Terry Boot and Theodore Nott start a long-distance chess match. McGonagall still sends you biscuits, and Luna sometimes asks if you wouldn't mind looking over her Herbology papers.
But what if the Death Eaters see your notes?
Let them.
Let them see that everyone is going on with their lives. Let them see that everyone is affected, but you- you won't back down. You'll keep writing if everyone else stops. And the fact that everyone else knows that you won't stop gives them the strength to keep communicating, to open their windows and doors and to go out into the sunlight.
You don't look out the window anymore. There's too much life to be had in these precious letters. Your days are full now. You plant and you write, you eat, you floo to see friends. There's even a study group now; the students and the teachers have taken the initiative of getting together and continuing their lessons. Education does not cease because some asshole in an outdated robe wants to rain on your parade.
They think this is defiance? They won't know defiance until someone takes the iniative and starts mailing large packages of candy, papers, and anything else they can find.
Resistance: noun. The act or an instance of resisting or the capacity to resist.
The night after Terry Boot is murdered, the sky glows with the combined light of dozens of candles, flickering from windowsills and doorsteps.
The candles burn every night thereafter, so brightly that they leave no shadows for Dementors and Death Eaters to hide in.
Faith: noun. Belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence.
You don't get a lot of news, and sometimes it makes you nervous. And people seem to think that you'd be the first one to get said news.
You do get some, more than most, but you're not stupid. Six years in friendship with Hermione Granger is enough to give you the smarts not to pass anything incriminating on.
Yet you soldier on, and good or bad, you keep the faith. First it's just you, and then Luna, and soon every letter that the Death Eaters find is full of determination. This will pass. You will survive, and not only that, but you will persevere. The death count rises, but the letters- your letters- are unflagging and unceasing.
The enemy wants to break your hope.
They don't understand the faith that comes with six years of love, companionship, trust, and strength.
So every day, between sunrise and sunset, you write your letters in your boxy, untidy scrawl, determined to keep everyone's spirits up. And as you work towards that, others join the fight. They may take Hogwarts, Diagon Alley, and Hogsmeade, but they can't take your spirit, your hands, and your words. They threaten you, and all you love.
The quiet strength that almost no-one saw for six years is most evident now. No-one questions your right to be in Gryffindor.
When you first sat down and wrote your first letter, you had no idea that it would lead to this. Up at all hours, responding as letters come in, sending off seeds and recipes and articles torn out of magazines. You rarely see the effects of what you've done, of what you've done for your friends and for the war effort. You haven't seen it, and you most likely never will.
You had wanted to do something. You had wanted to contribute to the destruction of the dark side, you wanted to fight it with what little strength you perceive yourself to have. You wanted to do something, anything, and even now, you think you've failed.
But that's only because people like you never really see what they do for everyone. When you glance in the mirror, you don't notice what everyone can see, as clear as day.
You don't see yourself for what you've done.
Because you, Neville Longbottom, are saving the world.
Hero: noun. Someone who fights for a cause.