A/N: Written for PaintMeIntrigued's challenge on the HPFC forum. Themed after the song Disturbia by Rihanna.
Disturbia: Definition - the dark side of a suburban neighborhood; the dark side of something thought to be light.
The common room was a buzz with excitement. Loud and cheerful and focused on one thing and one thing only. On the fact that, again, Harry had just brought home the Quidditch Cup. Food and drinks had been acquired, decorations of red and gold hung up, and it was just like every other time their team one a match.
Really, Neville should have been celebrating with the rest of his housemates. He had no reason to be angry. To not be out there having a good time with everyone. For once, he'd even been included. Seamus and Dean had called him over earlier to hang out by the snack table with them.
Neville turned them down.
Now, he didn't know why. He was sitting off in a corner of the common room, by himself, with nothing but the essay he had to write up for Charms to keep him busy. If it weren't for the overwhelming noise that filled the room, it would just be like any other night. Except that, for the life of him, the words needed for the essay just wouldn't come to mind.
Over an hour, Neville had spent hunched over on the floor. Quill posed and ready over the parchment spread in front of him. Head bowed so that he didn't have to watch the others goofing off; someone had brought a Wizards Wireless and a jaunty tune was playing now, adding to the layer of sound. And he hadn't been able to write a single thing.
No, the only thing that Neville could focus on was what the party was over. It wasn't for the players on the Quidditch Team. It wasn't for Katie or Fred or George or Angelina or anyone else. It was for Harry.
Always for Harry.
The words wouldn't leave his head. Over and over they echoed. In different ways and with different words but always meaning the same thing. Always pointing out the sudden and intense not-quite-hate that he had recently developed for the fellow Gryffindor. Words that he couldn't block out because they were true.
True in every way.
Thinking about it too hard actually made Neville sick. Sick, because it wasn't right what he was feeling. Gryffindors were supposed to be loyal to each other. They were supposed to protect each other and defend each other and stand by each other. Like good little housemates. They weren't supposed to hate each other for every move. It just wasn't right.
And Neville felt so horribly, horribly guilty over it.
Guilty becaus Harry didn't choose to be the son that Voldemort went after. The other boy hadn't chosen to be famous. In fact, from what Neville had gathered, Harry didn't even like the attention. That fact alone should have mellowed out whatever anger Neville felt towards him. It usually did.
After all, the Longbottom child wasn't the type of person to begrudge someone, especially not for something they couldn't help. He was a forgiving boy. A kind one. The type of boy who would stop whatever he was doing to listen to Nearly Headless Nick complain or show around a First Year at the risk of being late to his own class.
That was why nothing had been said on Neville's part. Because it wasn't the type of person who he should be. It wasn't what his Gran would want him to do or what his father would have done. It was something that would have broken his mothers heart if she ever found out; found out and remembered the words being said to her.
So that left him to dwell on it on his own. To run things over in his mind and try to tell himself that those things, those awful things he was thinking about Harry, they weren't true. They were just-oh, he didn't even know what to call it! Neville just knew that it made his stomach churn.
Yet he still couldn't get his mind to stop. The words kept coming all the time.
Listen to them talk about him.
It's all the teachers can focus on.
They think he's so special but is he?
Everything that they do and say and think...Always Harry.
It was enough to make Neville think that, maybe, he was just starting to loose it. Maybe nothing was making sense to him any more, his beliefs and his thoughts weren't the same, because he'd gone nuts. Because he was just a tad disturbed. That would make sense, wouldn't it?
With that thought suddenly in mind, that reason for everything that he'd been thinking these last few years, that the brown-haired boy dropped the quill to the ground. He capped the bottle of ink, pushed the blank parchment to the side, and stood up in just a few jerky movements.
Neville's stomach churned. His head pounded. Mouth gone dry, his voice came out as a soft croak. "I'm going upstairs."
Around him, the party kept going. A few of the other students, like Angelina and Dean, nodded at him. Hermione even looked up from her conversation with Parvati; she looked a little worried but only gave him a half-hearted smile.
For once, Neville didn't return it. He couldn't return it. He was too busy just trying to get the voices to stop whispering in his ears.