A/N: So, I've had this desire to write a Neville one-shot that included the ending scene for the LONGEST time. Then Carrot Stix from the forums had this challenge of writing a 500+ word story (hence the shortness of it. I felt too lazy to expand :P ) that consisted of the description of one single object or emotion. Totally inspired the Neville story I had on the back burner. Now that I've finished the story, I realize I might not have met the challenge Carot Stix had originally set out, but I want to acknowledge said person for the inspiration anyway. Hope you all like! )
A Vicious Cycle Called Optimism, and Why I Hate It.
I personally don't understand optimistic people. I don't understand how they can be optimistic. I mean, do they not read the newspapers? Mind you, The Daily Prophet isn't exactly my idea of award-winning journalism, but still. Anyone who reads it knows we're in a war. People are dying left and right. Families are being torn apart, children can no longer be left alone, and lives are being ruined. What's there to be optimistic about? Well, alright. There's Harry Potter, the supposed Chosen One, but I have my doubts about all of that business.
I have absolutely nothing against Harry Potter. He's great, and he's a great friend. My Gran adores him and would probably rather have him as a grandson than me. And for good reason. I've seen what he's capable of doing. I fought alongside with him in the Department of Mysteries a year ago. I don't doubt his abilities. But he's my age! Not even seventeen! He's a great wizard, but You-Know-Who's pretty darn good too. And far more evil. And evil people tend to fight dirty and unfairly, and fighting unfairly and dirtily oftentimes results in winning. It's terrible, I know, but that's why it's called unfair.
Anyway, I know he's that shred of optimism for the wizarding community, that maybe he'll be able to defeat You-Know-Who, and as much as I'd love to believe that he will, I'm worried that he won't. Harry's so...human. And nice. You-know-who's so...ugly and mean. It's nothing personal against Harry. Really. I truly admire and respect him. No words can describe the magnitude to which I esteem him, so I feel like there's no point in bothering to try. I'm sure you understand. He's great, but I'm afraid of him not being enough.
So what's left to be optimistic about then if the entire wizarding community is putting all their hopes in a young wizard who's not even of age yet to defeat the most evil wizard known to man? It's quite frustrating, because I can't think of anything. Amelia Bones, a good friend of Gran's, was killed months ago. She was my parents' friend as well, back in the day, and I've been good friends with her niece Susan for a long time too. I felt that flame of optimism extinguish itself when that happened. Amelia Bones was invincible. She was always the tough, scary lady who was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who threatened to try me in the Wizengamot whenever I misbehaved in her presence. Of course, I eventually figured out she just said that to scare me, but she was forever engraved in my mind as the authoritative figure not to be messed with. I think that's why Gran loved her so much. They had that in common.
I suppose that's neither here nor there. That's another thing about optimism. It forces you to draw on old, sometimes painful memories from which you gather hope. I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on reliving painful memories. It doesn't help anyway. I'd much rather try to put the past behind me. Live in the present. Move forward.
One last thing about why I hate optimism. It's a fickle and fairweathered friend. And no one like fickle and fairweathered friends; as fun as they are to have around, they're unreliable. They deceive you. They comfort you one moment, giving you hope for the future, and in the next moment they've vanished, leaving you high and dry.
I visit my parents in St. Mungo's when I can - when I go home for Christmas and during summer holiday. Susan once asked me when we were about six why I didn't live with my parents. I remember shrugging and telling her that they were sick. I smiled optimistically though and told her I'd probably live with them one day, once they got better. Needless to say, they never did.
I suppose I'm over it though. Reconciled to the fact that they're alive and nothing more. They've never known me and they never will, and I suppose I've gotten used to that idea. But then I go to St. Mungo's. I always bring Mum a pack of gum because she loves to chew on it. Gran normally detests gum because she thinks that people resemble cows when they're sitting there, chewing it idly. But she tolerates the exchange between Mum and me. She knows there's something to be understood there, even if she can't quite understand it herself, and it's that tolerance that makes me admire Gran. She waits patiently with Dad, her beautiful, heroic, defeated son, while I give Mum her gum.
She looks nothing like she does in her photos, my mum. Her face is blank, and the life in her eyes are gone. She doesn't smile when Gran and I enter the room, or even when I give her the gum. She just takes it, sits on her bed, unwraps the gum and carefully inserts it into her mouth. After a few minutes she gets up and hands me the wrapper.
And this is why I loathe optimism the most and why I think it a fairweathered friend. It keeps reemerging when you think it's gone, like some vicious cycle. I always take that gum wrapper and pocket it, hoping desperately that it's a sign of improvement. A sign of recognition. A form of acknowledgement that I am, if not her son, then at least the boy who will always have gum for her.
That's what optimism does to you, and that is why I hate it.