A/N: Written for the Duct Tape competition.
Prompt: Pink Leopard.
He swings his legs against the bottom of the park bench, unwrapping his sandwich and looking around, the slightly salty breeze blowing his hair back. On the other side of the park, he can hear children laughing, but he knows better than to go over there. They'll just laugh at him, maybe shove him down. Call him a crybaby. Taunt him. About his pudginess. About the way his teeth stick out in front. About the way his grandmother dresses him, in the old-fashioned hand-me-downs she found in the attic that used to belong to his father. About his pitiable lack of magic.
"Fight back," they always sneer, but Neville can't. He doesn't know how. He doesn't want to know how. He can't really put words to it, not now, not yet, but somewhere, deep in his heart, he feels like fighting back will lead to the same kind of situation his parents ended up in. Being tortured and cursed until all you can do is twitch spasmodically on the floor, as blood dribbles down your chin from your bitten tongue and your fingernails are torn down to the quick. And the worst part-the fact that it doesn't even kill you in the end.
No, Neville wants nothing to do with things like that, and so he sits there, waiting for his grandmother to get back. Eating his sandwich, which is weathered ham and hard cheddar, the way he likes it. Augusta Longbottom may be many things, but there are some things she gets right, and what he likes to eat is one of them. It's surprisingly peaceful on the 'wrong' side of the park and when Neville is done, balling the wax paper up and stuffing it into his pocket, he stands up, wandering over to a little copse of trees, only a few feet away.
It's like another world, he discovers as he wanders in among the branches. The sunlight bathes him, watery radiance on a perpetually cloudy day, and the wind dies. From out of nowhere, a face appears on the tree in front of him, startling him badly and making him jump backward. He trips over his shoe laces and falls flat on his arse, a painful blush staining his cheeks.
"It's all right," the face tells him kindly. "Stand up, boy. Let me look at you."
"O-o-okay," Neville stammers and climbs clumsily to his feet. The face pushes forward a bit, until a woman materialises out of the tree. She's wispy and Neville can see the rest of the copse through her, but she's definitely there. "A-a-re you a ghost?" Neville blurts out, and the woman laughs.
"No, lad," she reassures him. "I'm a tree spirit. A dryad. Haven't you learned about us in school? No, I suppose not," the dryad decides, looking him over. "You're a bit young, aren't you?"
"I'm nine," Neville says, stubborn. "Not that young! Um, ma'am," he hastily adds, the tips of his ears turning red now, too.
"Most young ones can't find my tree," the dryad says reflectively. Her eyes seem to look right through him. "But you're different, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Neville sighs. "That's what everyone always says."
"I do not mean that to mock you," the tree spirit continues, eyeing him with what looks like sympathy. "You look like that has happened enough in your life. But it takes a special sort of soul to be able to see the spirits of nature."
"It does?" Neville leans forward, gape-mouthed. He's never been told he was special before, and his eagerness is almost painful.
"Yes," the dryad nods. "You are more special than you realise, and stronger than you know. Now-lad, I believe your guardian is looking for you." Neville whirls, hearing his grandmother calling his name and looking more distressed than he's ever seen her before.
"Um-will I ever see you again?" he blurts, and the spirit of the tree smiles.
"Perhaps not me specifically but yes, child, you will see dryads again," she assures him. "Now go."
Neville runs nearly headlong into his grandmother, babbling apologies, and when he turns his head, he realises he can't see the copse of trees anymore.
Then again, he doesn't need to.