mouthporn.net
#neville longbottom – @lavenderpatil on Tumblr

harry potter slow jams

@lavenderpatil / lavenderpatil.tumblr.com

the fic-writing blog of an 19-year-old    harry potter enthusiast. [AO3]     (about me in two links.)     → notable tags: others' writing | graphics (not mine)          see also: things of note | favourite posts | laugh tag
Avatar
reblogged
Avatar
ink-splotch

loony: in defense of luna lovegood

When Luna got her Hogwarts letter, her father offered to homeschool her with that sideways ceiling twist of his eyes which meant he wanted her to say yes.

Their house was tall and crooked, full of the things her father had found and her mother had made. Luna climbed to the very top. The farther you got from gravity the better your head thought, or so her mother had told her, which was why her mother’s old lab was at the top of the wobbly steps.

Luna poked through old notes scattered over the gouged work desk. There was no covering of dust, even though her mother had been dead two years now. Recipes and budget calculations were scrawled beside butchered Latin and geometric spell diagrams. Luna did not know what the markings were meant to be, these half-done spells, except that one of them had killed her mother.

Her father was pacing downstairs, making tea and fiddling with the feathers and bone nubs on the kitchen window. 

Luna did not know what these meant, these pages scattered under her fingertips, and that’s what decided her. She ran little fingers over her mother’s bright scrawl. 

They went to Diagon Alley that afternoon and had her fitted for robes. They left a few extra inches for her to grow into.

 —

There is a story about a girl whose feet do not touch the ground; a girl who looked at nightmarish horses and saw beauty immediately, easily, who woke to every pair of her shoes missing and said to the calm morning, “Things have a way of coming back to you.” There is a story, or could be, but it is not this one.

When Luna woke from nightmares, she shook under three blankets and the pillow she pulled over her head.

When she woke up and her last pair of shoes had been stolen, she had woken up already to eight other sunrises to find her notebooks, her bracelets, and her books gone from her bedside table. When the last of her shoes were gone, she breathed in, she breathed out, she thought about the adventures of barefoot life.

That first morning, though, she woke up in her new little home of blue and bronze, soft sheets, the home of the wise, the witty, the true—only to find the bead bracelet that kept wrackspurts away had vanished. The books on her bedside were jarred out of place. That first morning, she hid back under her covers.

The farther you were from the ground, the better your head thought, and Ravenclaw Tower was so very high up. Luna ran through every young, bright face in her dormitory, trying to find cruelty in their freckles and earlobes. Where did that hide again? Luna knew humor lay tucked in the crook of your neck, and kindness in your vertebra, but she had never asked her mother where meanness lived.

The first time Luna saw thestrals, she was eleven years old and lost, by other people’s defintions of the word. Harry Potter was in a flying car with Ron Weasley and Luna had wandered away from the whispering other first years, following noise and light until she drifted across the place where the older students were disembarking from the carriages.

Skeletal horses, like every scary story she had ever been told, loomed— tattered wings, a streak of blood on one muzzle. Luna clutched at new, starched robes. But she held her breath. She watched. Peace is not a thing given. It is made.

When the hostlers unharnessed the thestrals, they snuffled at their chests, looking for treats. A little foal slipped out a slightly ajar fence and shot to a thestral at the third carriage, bumping her legs and sneezing with joy.

Luna found her way back to the Hall before anyone missed her amid the gaggle of wide eyes and swishing robes. They ushered them into the main Hall and everything in Luna twisted itself into a rigid line. She wanted, briefly and terribly, to go home. The Hall was a sea of staring faces, so she tilted her head back and looked up—she almost stopped in her tracks. The starry ceiling was velvet black, spreading and spreading, promising immensities. Luna felt something in her chest untangle.

Luna had sat down on the Hogwarts Express and nibbled Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean until there was nothing left but streaks of color on her tongue. She had put a Quibbler up in front of her face but hadn’t read a word, just thinking. Sometimes your spell will burble green, bubble neon purple and combust in your hands— that will be the last thing you will ever see. Sometimes your spells will go bad—she had nibbled a pumpkin flavored bean and pretended to turn a page—but the alternative was just a different kind of death.

When the hat offered her Ravenclaw, she opened her hands wide.

Avatar

The alternate universe in which Neville Longbottom, Boy Who Lived, roundly defeated Voldemort once and for all at age seven; still couldn’t locate his Remembrall in year one; saved Hannah Abbott from rogue Death Eaters in year two; reintroduced the toad fad to the Wizarding World in year three; said, “No thanks,” to an offer to participate in the Triwizard Tournament in year four; finally made solid friends with Harry Potter (who previously Neville had privately thought was a bit of an arrogant sod, Harry having been spoiled and adored all his life by his very living parents) in year five; resolutely refused to befriend a rather sinister textbook in year six; graduated, without much fanfare, in year seven; and had a rather long and dull conversation with Hannah in a much-maligned epilogue that confirmed that, yes, they did get married, and no, they did not have any children.

Books on Neville were called, “Rather plodding, but with a very upstanding protagonist whom one cannot help but like even if he is kind of uninteresting.” They sold in moderate amounts, becoming more of a niche or cult fandom and spawning intense internet shipping wars, as many fans felt Hannah was ‘boring’ or ‘just sort of made to be his girlfriend and not much else,’ and advocated instead a relationship with best friend Ginny Weasley or Slytherin rival Blaise Zabini.

Avatar
reblogged

Okay but a Harry Potter UA where Harry isn’t able to come back at the end of Deathly Hallows. He succeeded in leaving Voldemort almost mortal once again, but he’s not around to kill him anymore. So as the battle rages on, it’s up to the survivors to end Voldemort once and for all.

Neville takes out Nagini and strips away Voldy’s last protection.

Molly takes out Bellatrix and strips away Voldy’s last lieutenant.

His rage is boundlesss, but his curses can’t hold.

And into the void steps Ginny. The first Weasley daughter in over a century, the seventh child of a seventh child, the girl more familiar with the inner workings of Voldemort’s soul than anyone else alive. Protected by Harry’s sacrifice, fearless and burning with righteous fury, she takes the stage.

And at long last, Ginevra Weasley has her triumph over Tom Riddle.

Avatar
reblogged

neville: view four

Hermione had been told where to find him: by the lake, under a tree and surrounded by piles of slightly damp and dirty books.

"Nice office, Neville," she said. "I heard they give Headmasters an indoor one, though." 

"Oh, hello," Neville said, squinting up at Hermione. "Are you Blaise’s dispatch?"

She carefully sat beside him, her boots squelching softly in the wet earth. “Afraid so.” She pulled her knees up to her chest. Even though it was the start of August it was chilly down by the lake. “I think he’s tired of living above a Hogsmeade pub.”

Neville sighed and partly shut his book, leaving his thumb between the pages as a momentary bookmark. 

She took his silence as invitation to continue. “It’s a wonderful office, Neville. Really. There’s a whole private library in there. Dumbledore’s pensieve. A gorgeous desk. Huge windows! You can just feel the history in that room,” she gushed. 

"That’s the problem." The Headmaster’s office had been one of the more glamorous perks Neville had been looking forward to. His heart had leapt into his throat when the gargoyle statued stepped aside for him. But he’d stopped on the top stair when he heard that silky sneer he thought he’d long since put away along with the other hated memories of himself.  

"He’s there, Hermione." She understood instantly. Neville knew she would. Hermione had been ridiculed in that class almost as much as he had. He wondered if the brilliant retorts that could have been implemented ever kept her up at night.

"You’re not that boy anymore, Neville" she said at last. "You’ve changed. More than any of us, really."

"But how can I lead a school with him there?” Neville gestured wildly at the castle, still holding his place in his book. “Looking over my shoulder? Doing everything he possibly can to rip me to shreds?”

"The headmaster portraits are honor-bound to advise the headmaster," Hermione said, quoting Hogwarts, A History. Neville suspected she was the only person who’d read it more times than him.

Neville snorted. “Something tells me his honor is in short supply,” he said.

"So you’re going to let a ghost chase you out of Hogwarts?" she said fiercely. Her scary-Hermione face was on. "Put his portrait in a cupboard if you have to! Just don’t let him take away what’s rightfully yours." 

He made a non-committal noise and they fell into a tense silence. Neville didn’t look back on his Hogwarts years with any great fondness. Not like the others. But Hogwarts was his now. The gargoyle statue had moved for him, hadn’t it? And there would be no more Severus Snapes as professors at his Hogwarts. He would save his students from that, starting with himself. 

"You know," Neville said slowly, "I’ve always thought Moaning Myrtle’s stall could use some redecorating…"

Avatar
reblogged

neville: view five

Naming a child brought with it a certain responsibility, but it couldn’t be that hard. Outside of names that could morph into unfortunate nicknames and names that carried certain cultural baggage, there were millions of perfectly decent ones to choose from. He’d seen and even once flipped through the baby naming books piled up on an armchair in Hermione and Ron’s living room. Neville had never actually named a baby, true, but he knew. There were options

"I understand James and Lily. I don’t necessarily agree, but I understand," Neville said, rolling the last little beads of fire whiskey around in his tumbler. He hated this, hated himself. Because it shouldn’t matter anymore, but it did. "I would never…" He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up at Blaise. "I couldn’t have a daughter named Alice, but I understand. This, though? Albus Severus Potter?” Neville drew out the middle name, letting the sharp V cut through the other syllables. 

Blaise took the glass from him, drained it, then set it on the mantle, nudging it between two photo frames. “There is a certain cognitive dissonance to the entire notion,” he said at last. “But it is an honor, in its way.”  "Oh, a tremendous honor," Neville said. He wasn’t usually so dry, but being with Blaise brought out sarcasm Neville didn’t know he had. Blaise always thought it was funny when Neville was occasionally mean - ‘Its comforting to witness even the kindest, most generous of people talking shit. And I like knowing your secrets, Neville Longbottom.’ - but Blaise wasn’t amused right now. He sat down close. “It is an honor,” Blaise repeated. "It’s thoughtless," Neville said, eyes blazing. "But that’s Harry for you. He never thinks! ‘The bravest man I ever knew?’" He rattled the birth announcement placard and corresponding letter. "What about Fred? Or Mad-Eye? Or Remus and Tonks? Or anyone else? We’re not short on dead friends." Bitterness rose in the back of his throat. "Snape wasn’t brave; he was selfish and cruel. I won’t be able to even look at this kid, and Harry wants me to be his godfather? Me, of all people? I won’t do it." "Are you quite finished?" Blaise asked. His voice was quiet and level, free of the Severus Snape baggage everyone else Neville knew shouldered. "I suppose I am." Neville folded his arms across his chest, feeling like a petulant child, but not caring. "Okay." Blaise took Neville by the wrists, unlocking him. "Then listen. You are the bravest man I know. And this boy is going to need someone like that in his life, someone who knows how to stand up for himself. Harry’s an idiot most of the time, but he made a smart choice here. You are the very best person to be his son’s godfather.” Neville felt a surge of affection for Blaise, but still, he was a little confused. Blaise looked so serious, but the corner of his eyes were starting to crinkle, his high cheekbones betraying him. "He’s going to be teased mercilessly, Neville. Albus Severus is a terrible name."

Avatar
reblogged
Avatar
skindyedblue

I was thinking about something recently. Neville was really talented with Herbology. So he’d naturally gravitate towards studying various aspects of it, right? What if during his 7th year at Hogwarts he found a way to use Victorian flower language?

At one point in time flowers had been used to pass secret messages. Each flower had a meaning, and there were multitudes of books dedicated to deciding those meanings. It would be a brilliant way to send covert messages for the Hogwarts Resistance. What self-respecting Death Eater would know about Muggle flower language from a century before?

The likelihood that they’d figure it out is so infinitesimally small. Neville could teach DA members what the flower language meant (or at least what key flowers meant) so they could pass messages and make it look like dating couples being sweet, or a student helping Professor Sprout.

So then a bouquet of irises, lemon geraniums and white poplars, with accents of white heather, witch hazel and four o’clocks, (and maybe a few rhododendrons) wrapped in a violet ribbon suddenly means something to the right people.

To someone who can translate it that bouquet of flowers becomes:

“I have a message from an unexpected meeting, cast a spell for ‘wishes come true’ (aka the room of requirement) at 4 o’clock on Saturday. Be careful!!”

You are using an unsupported browser and things might not work as intended. Please make sure you're using the latest version of Chrome, Firefox, Safari, or Edge.
mouthporn.net