Disclaimer: I am not writing this for fame, fortune, or some other violation of copyright law pertaining to the original content of JKR and her publishers.
Disclaimer(2): This is an entry for the House Competition writing contest held by MoonlightForgotten.
(Drabble, less than 900 words, topic: The Black Lake).
The warmth of the Black Lake lapping over his toes is all too familiar, and the cool breeze almost freezes the moment for him with pristine quality. Air, swampy and gritty, yet Neville finds the scent comforting. After all, it isn't the smell of dusty furniture and peeling Polaroid pictures. Sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends he's a fish swimming in the dark depths of the water, and then he records what he thinks the underwater world is like. Someday he hopes to study the world of the Merpeople. They are absolutely fascinating. He believes that they'll smell of seaweed and wet tree branches, from the sticks students often toss out into the waves. He doesn't understand why they do that, but he doesn't understand how it affects the ecology of the lake either. Someday he'll know; someday he will understand. Once he does he'll make sure Hogwarts bans the activity if it's harmful.
Neville came to love the Black Lake in his first year of school. Always forgetting things, always being lackluster, and stuttering when he was scared. Some of it he's grown out of, and a lot of that is thanks to his friendship with Harry Potter. He makes those around him better simply for knowing him, and Neville couldn't be more grateful for the experiences they've shared, and the ones that are still yet to come. Something big is happening, and he can feel it in the movement of the waters as he scoots forward to submerge himself up to his ankles. Next year, his last year at Hogwarts, is going to be life changing. The wind shifts, and it blows his hair around causing a tickle on the back of his neck. Without even thinking, his hand lifts to rub his skin, and traces of mud lift with his fingers. Having Earth on his skin is as natural as breathing anymore so he doesn't mind.
Neville doesn't know if he'll ever be as fascinating as the Merpeople or as brave as Harry Potter, but he doesn't suppose men who sit alone on the shores of the Black Lake are supposed to be either of those things. He sighs, but not in exasperation so much as acceptance; "This isn't a place for doers," he decides, "This is a place for thinkers." Neville thinks a lot, some might even say too much.
"But someone's got to do it."