Neville cries because he's scared, and true Gryfindors always have something to fear.
“Evil! Wicked!”
“Say it!” She squealed, the crazed smile on her face, “Say it! I know what I am!”
“Foul! One day you’ll die! He’ll betray you!”
“NEVER!”
There came another scream.
Neville Longbottom sat up in bed, sweat dripping from his forehead. She’d been torturing them again. She’d stopped years ago, but she kept at it over and over again through his dreams.
Finally, scrunching his coconut styled hair out of place, he stood. Harry, Ron and the others were still asleep. Neville crept to the common room, sat at a desk, pulled out someone else’s potion’s book, and decided to study. Yet, with each passing word printed, it became increasingly difficult to focus. His parents… being tortured… again and again…
Now they hardly knew their son’s name.
Currently he banged his head on the book and sobbed.
He thought Hogwarts was so promising; it’d even been confirmed when he’d met the boy who’d gotten Bellatrix locked in prison. Now, however, the boy seemed rather dull, rather too much ordinary. All his teachers seemed too strict, the transfiguration lady was okay, but Snape was rather cruel. (He had an easier time remembering names of people who scared him than people he liked.) Why had the sorting hat placed him in Gryffindor? He would’ve done a much better job as a Hufflepuff…
There came a tap at the window. Neville wiped his eyes with his pajama sleeve and looked up. An owl was pecking furiously, looking at him with golden eyes, Let me in this instant!
Neville did as the owl supposedly told him, the sharp claws landing gently on his arm as he pulled a letter out of the beak, “Dear Neville,” It was in Luna’s handwriting.
He’d known Luna for a little while now. She was extraordinarily odd, which frightened him a little, but also very kind and accepting to him. Her mother had died a year before, and Neville felt great sympathy toward her.
His round face pink from grief, Neville read the letter.
Making Potions Like This Everyday For Sixteen Years Would Make You Crazy, Too.
He was sick of potions. The flasks were tightening, strangling the liquid in which they contained, popped a cork on and then left to sit on a shelf, never to be used. Yet his emotions kept brewing, only to be strangled, and shut off, and left to stay like they were meaningless.
He hated outbursts. He hated obsession. He hated overexcitement, overzealousness.
Yet, as he stared back to the class before him, the abnormal bliss sunk in him that others looked down upon. He was teaching Defense against the Dark Arts for the first time, something he’d long, long wished for…
He popped a cork on the excitement and lazily set it on the shelf.
He wasn’t really in a position to be happy about his new job. Dumbledore was now certain to die, and he would be the one to kill the old man, the only one who knew his deep secret, the only one who would accept him, and had given him another chance to make Hogwarts his home when there was nowhere else to go. Draco, of course, would try to prove himself, but as his godfather, he’d withhold the child from danger, and keep him from making the same mistakes.
After Dumbledore died, he’d have the term murderer printed on his skin. Anyone who still trusted him would now turn their backs. Cursing himself, he’d lay awake at night, wondering how Lily would react to his kill, wondering if he really was what they said he was.
He’d already killed one and had never lost any slept over it.
As he sat in his chair, the class now heavily at work, he suddenly felt like crying. He popped another cork, deciding to release his fresh upset by deliberately bullying Harry James Potter later that day.
He wondered what he’d do. Perhaps the child would scrub the floor with a toothbrush? The young man grinned, which scared the rest of his students into more hard work.
“Evil! Wicked!”
“Say it!” She squealed, the crazed smile on her face, “Say it! I know what I am!”
“Foul! One day you’ll die! He’ll betray you!”
“NEVER!”
There came another scream.
Neville Longbottom sat up in bed, sweat dripping from his forehead. She’d been torturing them again. She’d stopped years ago, but she kept at it over and over again through his dreams.
Finally, scrunching his coconut styled hair out of place, he stood. Harry, Ron and the others were still asleep. Neville crept to the common room, sat at a desk, pulled out someone else’s potion’s book, and decided to study. Yet, with each passing word printed, it became increasingly difficult to focus. His parents… being tortured… again and again…
Now they hardly knew their son’s name.
Currently he banged his head on the book and sobbed.
He thought Hogwarts was so promising; it’d even been confirmed when he’d met the boy who’d gotten Bellatrix locked in prison. Now, however, the boy seemed rather dull, rather too much ordinary. All his teachers seemed too strict, the transfiguration lady was okay, but Snape was rather cruel. (He had an easier time remembering names of people who scared him than people he liked.) Why had the sorting hat placed him in Gryffindor? He would’ve done a much better job as a Hufflepuff…
There came a tap at the window. Neville wiped his eyes with his pajama sleeve and looked up. An owl was pecking furiously, looking at him with golden eyes, Let me in this instant!
Neville did as the owl supposedly told him, the sharp claws landing gently on his arm as he pulled a letter out of the beak, “Dear Neville,” It was in Luna’s handwriting.
He’d known Luna for a little while now. She was extraordinarily odd, which frightened him a little, but also very kind and accepting to him. Her mother had died a year before, and Neville felt great sympathy toward her.
His round face pink from grief, Neville read the letter.
Making Potions Like This Everyday For Sixteen Years Would Make You Crazy, Too.
He was sick of potions. The flasks were tightening, strangling the liquid in which they contained, popped a cork on and then left to sit on a shelf, never to be used. Yet his emotions kept brewing, only to be strangled, and shut off, and left to stay like they were meaningless.
He hated outbursts. He hated obsession. He hated overexcitement, overzealousness.
Yet, as he stared back to the class before him, the abnormal bliss sunk in him that others looked down upon. He was teaching Defense against the Dark Arts for the first time, something he’d long, long wished for…
He popped a cork on the excitement and lazily set it on the shelf.
He wasn’t really in a position to be happy about his new job. Dumbledore was now certain to die, and he would be the one to kill the old man, the only one who knew his deep secret, the only one who would accept him, and had given him another chance to make Hogwarts his home when there was nowhere else to go. Draco, of course, would try to prove himself, but as his godfather, he’d withhold the child from danger, and keep him from making the same mistakes.
After Dumbledore died, he’d have the term murderer printed on his skin. Anyone who still trusted him would now turn their backs. Cursing himself, he’d lay awake at night, wondering how Lily would react to his kill, wondering if he really was what they said he was.
He’d already killed one and had never lost any slept over it.
As he sat in his chair, the class now heavily at work, he suddenly felt like crying. He popped another cork, deciding to release his fresh upset by deliberately bullying Harry James Potter later that day.
He wondered what he’d do. Perhaps the child would scrub the floor with a toothbrush? The young man grinned, which scared the rest of his students into more hard work.
The rules are simple. Just read the picture (below) and comment the results. If you don't have a Ipod, you can use radios, Spotify, CDs, and you can look them up. Remember, don't lie. Here's mine:
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go
When the lights go out
Life's been so good to me
This is someone else's story
Over time I've come to feel
With sadness in my heart and joy in my mind
This is not the first time you tried to get away
Born for trouble, poised for action
Animals came from miles around
Everyone says sooner or later you'll reach the end of the line
---------------------------------------------------------------------
I'm all dressed up with nowhere to go
When the lights go out
Life's been so good to me
This is someone else's story
Over time I've come to feel
With sadness in my heart and joy in my mind
This is not the first time you tried to get away
Born for trouble, poised for action
Animals came from miles around
Everyone says sooner or later you'll reach the end of the line