TITLE: A Lesson In Control
AUTHOR: Jana Kay
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au
DISCLAIMER: All characters named belong and are copyrighted to J.K. Rowling. I'm simply using them for my own enjoyment. No monetary profit is being made from this.
SPOILERS: Goblet of Fire
TIMELINE: Takes place during the Easter break in GoF.
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: In some situations, it doesn't matter how many times you do something. It never stops hurting. -- A Neville story.
NOTES: These //....// indicate thoughts.
***
He can't seem to keep his hands still.
His fingers jump and twitch from place to place, seeming to stop only when he forcibly clenches all the muscles tight in his body, holding back, holding still, his brain shutting down until the only thing still moving inside of him is the constant itch in his memory of dreams. Faded, long since past, and not in the least real.
He thinks perhaps that the itch is even worse, so he allows himself to relax again, mouth slack and eyes bright with tears he won't … won't … let fall.
His hands are moving again.
They jump from his cloak to his thighs, running up and down the thick, nubby fabric in fumbling agitation. He tries not to look at them, tries very hard not to think about them.
His fingers are twitching around his wrists now, one hand looping over the other, again, again, and then back again. He can vaguely feel his pulse hammering beneath the fragile layer of skin, churning and pounding and twitching, racing through his body and moving up, up, lodging behind his eyeballs and pounding its incessant, ceaseless rhythm.
//Leave me alone// he thinks.
It pays him no mind though, has anyone really?
Ever?
"I'm not thinking about that," he whispers suddenly, the sound low and furious, almost unnatural coming from him. The harsh syllables fall heavily into the silence surrounding him, echoing strangely in his ears, reverberating back and forth inside his head.
The blood pounding inside of him is almost painful, his heart racing at a speed that cannot be kept up for very long.
A flicker of movement catches his eye in his peripheral vision, but he knows what's coming and doesn't turn to watch. Merely continues to stare straight ahead as his eyeballs burn painfully and his fingers twitch almost spasmodically in the folds of his cloak, plucking fearfully, anxiously, silence now ringing in his ears, underscored by the ever so faint shuffling that draws nearer to him.
He wants to burst into tears.
He wants to run away from here and never come back.
//What's the point?// he always asked himself.
//What. Is. The. Bloody. Point.//
He never swears. Never ever. He was brought up to be good, brought up strict and well, but he just cannot for the life of him understand this. All it does is hurt him, all it does is make him hate, a place tucked far inside of him burning now with a vicious acid that he can't make go away no matter how much he tries.
His hands have stopped plucking at his robes and buttons now, and have started trembling. He discovers with no great surprise, that tears have spilled from his eyes already, without his permission. His heart aches now, as it continues to beat fast as a hare in his chest.
The shuffling grows closer and he brings his trembling hands up quickly to swipe across his eyes, dragging moisture away more firmly with the warm cloth of his robes. He tightens his body again, muscles clenching.
//Mustn't let them see me like this, mustn't let them get upset, mustn't cry, mustn't touch them, mustn't … // It echoes like a chant in his head as he clenches his hands into fists and blinks rapidly, not willing to let the tears escape again.
"Neville," he hears his grandmother say, her tone as soft as he's ever heard it, and he looks up slowly, acid creeping insidiously through him, twisting through vein and muscle and heart and sinew, as he feels even more weak and pathetic than usual.
"Neville, love, look who's here." And the proud figure of his grandmother looks smaller somehow. Weakened and defeated as she stands near him with a plump nurse in tow. To the left of the nurse are his parents in their stiff, white hospital robes.
Despite himself, his heart leaps as he sees them, but they simply stare at him blankly.
//I will not let them down, I will not let them down.//
He bites his tongue and tastes blood in his attempts to not tremble uncontrollably from head to foot.
Standing up, he walks slowly towards them … carefully … so carefully … his hands shaking now even though he still has them clenched tightly by his sides.
//What's the point?// whispers his aching heart. //They'll never know me.//
But he stands before them anyway, dreams where they recognise him if he does this or remember him if he does that tumbling through his mind in a constant loop, as if to torture him with something that could never be.
"Hello, mum," he says softly, eyes devouring her soft, haggard face, "hello, dad," as he takes in the twisted expression of pain that has been permanently stuck on his father's features for thirteen years now.
He knows what put that expression there now. His heart stops for a moment as he remembers the spider twitching and jerking on Professor Moody's desk, its silent scream echoing through his bones and raising goosebumps on his flesh. He hates himself because he's seen picture of his parents from before and they looked nothing like this, nothing at all. They still remembered then, remembered HIM, and he's so ashamed because he wants to fall at their feet and sob, pull them both close, hold them tight, and try to imagine a childhood with them in it like normal parents.
A choked sob escapes him before he can quite manage to catch it, and he feels the warmth of his grandmother's old hand on his shoulder. Small comfort, but comfort still.
A flash of hope goes through him when for an instant, a fraction of a second, he sees something pass through his mother's eyes, frail and unsteady but THERE nonetheless. Perhaps a distant memory of him crying as a child, so faded with time and insanity that she can no longer place it, no longer remember if it was real, no longer remember who the baby was, if there was even a baby, and certainly not able to place the round faced teenager before her with that screaming child.
It's gone before he's even certain he saw it though, and his heart promptly sinks back down to settle in his stomach.
His hands begin to twitch again tapping over and over against his thighs, as his grandmother and the nurse lead their small group out of the waiting room at St Mungo's, which smells of sharp cleaning potions, into a smaller room so they can have some privacy.
Blood rushes through him so quickly he feels dizzy, sick, and he wants nothing more than to stop in his tracks, cry until he's purged all his anger and hate, then throw up.
He was never strong like his father after all.
His hands are twitching more, jerking as he plucks at fabric and bites his lip, round face red with the effort to not do something stupid, and his grandmother's noticed now, he can tell.
Her gaze burns into him sadly, and his hands move more frantically against the fabric, his fingernails almost tearing into it.
He wants to stop but he just can't help it.
He can't seem to keep his hands still.
~Finis~
AN: Well, that was my first HP fic. Am I on the right track, or failing abysmally at portraying the characters correctly? Feel free to let me know.
AUTHOR: Jana Kay
EMAIL: jana_kay17@yahoo.com.au
DISCLAIMER: All characters named belong and are copyrighted to J.K. Rowling. I'm simply using them for my own enjoyment. No monetary profit is being made from this.
SPOILERS: Goblet of Fire
TIMELINE: Takes place during the Easter break in GoF.
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: In some situations, it doesn't matter how many times you do something. It never stops hurting. -- A Neville story.
NOTES: These //....// indicate thoughts.
***
He can't seem to keep his hands still.
His fingers jump and twitch from place to place, seeming to stop only when he forcibly clenches all the muscles tight in his body, holding back, holding still, his brain shutting down until the only thing still moving inside of him is the constant itch in his memory of dreams. Faded, long since past, and not in the least real.
He thinks perhaps that the itch is even worse, so he allows himself to relax again, mouth slack and eyes bright with tears he won't … won't … let fall.
His hands are moving again.
They jump from his cloak to his thighs, running up and down the thick, nubby fabric in fumbling agitation. He tries not to look at them, tries very hard not to think about them.
His fingers are twitching around his wrists now, one hand looping over the other, again, again, and then back again. He can vaguely feel his pulse hammering beneath the fragile layer of skin, churning and pounding and twitching, racing through his body and moving up, up, lodging behind his eyeballs and pounding its incessant, ceaseless rhythm.
//Leave me alone// he thinks.
It pays him no mind though, has anyone really?
Ever?
"I'm not thinking about that," he whispers suddenly, the sound low and furious, almost unnatural coming from him. The harsh syllables fall heavily into the silence surrounding him, echoing strangely in his ears, reverberating back and forth inside his head.
The blood pounding inside of him is almost painful, his heart racing at a speed that cannot be kept up for very long.
A flicker of movement catches his eye in his peripheral vision, but he knows what's coming and doesn't turn to watch. Merely continues to stare straight ahead as his eyeballs burn painfully and his fingers twitch almost spasmodically in the folds of his cloak, plucking fearfully, anxiously, silence now ringing in his ears, underscored by the ever so faint shuffling that draws nearer to him.
He wants to burst into tears.
He wants to run away from here and never come back.
//What's the point?// he always asked himself.
//What. Is. The. Bloody. Point.//
He never swears. Never ever. He was brought up to be good, brought up strict and well, but he just cannot for the life of him understand this. All it does is hurt him, all it does is make him hate, a place tucked far inside of him burning now with a vicious acid that he can't make go away no matter how much he tries.
His hands have stopped plucking at his robes and buttons now, and have started trembling. He discovers with no great surprise, that tears have spilled from his eyes already, without his permission. His heart aches now, as it continues to beat fast as a hare in his chest.
The shuffling grows closer and he brings his trembling hands up quickly to swipe across his eyes, dragging moisture away more firmly with the warm cloth of his robes. He tightens his body again, muscles clenching.
//Mustn't let them see me like this, mustn't let them get upset, mustn't cry, mustn't touch them, mustn't … // It echoes like a chant in his head as he clenches his hands into fists and blinks rapidly, not willing to let the tears escape again.
"Neville," he hears his grandmother say, her tone as soft as he's ever heard it, and he looks up slowly, acid creeping insidiously through him, twisting through vein and muscle and heart and sinew, as he feels even more weak and pathetic than usual.
"Neville, love, look who's here." And the proud figure of his grandmother looks smaller somehow. Weakened and defeated as she stands near him with a plump nurse in tow. To the left of the nurse are his parents in their stiff, white hospital robes.
Despite himself, his heart leaps as he sees them, but they simply stare at him blankly.
//I will not let them down, I will not let them down.//
He bites his tongue and tastes blood in his attempts to not tremble uncontrollably from head to foot.
Standing up, he walks slowly towards them … carefully … so carefully … his hands shaking now even though he still has them clenched tightly by his sides.
//What's the point?// whispers his aching heart. //They'll never know me.//
But he stands before them anyway, dreams where they recognise him if he does this or remember him if he does that tumbling through his mind in a constant loop, as if to torture him with something that could never be.
"Hello, mum," he says softly, eyes devouring her soft, haggard face, "hello, dad," as he takes in the twisted expression of pain that has been permanently stuck on his father's features for thirteen years now.
He knows what put that expression there now. His heart stops for a moment as he remembers the spider twitching and jerking on Professor Moody's desk, its silent scream echoing through his bones and raising goosebumps on his flesh. He hates himself because he's seen picture of his parents from before and they looked nothing like this, nothing at all. They still remembered then, remembered HIM, and he's so ashamed because he wants to fall at their feet and sob, pull them both close, hold them tight, and try to imagine a childhood with them in it like normal parents.
A choked sob escapes him before he can quite manage to catch it, and he feels the warmth of his grandmother's old hand on his shoulder. Small comfort, but comfort still.
A flash of hope goes through him when for an instant, a fraction of a second, he sees something pass through his mother's eyes, frail and unsteady but THERE nonetheless. Perhaps a distant memory of him crying as a child, so faded with time and insanity that she can no longer place it, no longer remember if it was real, no longer remember who the baby was, if there was even a baby, and certainly not able to place the round faced teenager before her with that screaming child.
It's gone before he's even certain he saw it though, and his heart promptly sinks back down to settle in his stomach.
His hands begin to twitch again tapping over and over against his thighs, as his grandmother and the nurse lead their small group out of the waiting room at St Mungo's, which smells of sharp cleaning potions, into a smaller room so they can have some privacy.
Blood rushes through him so quickly he feels dizzy, sick, and he wants nothing more than to stop in his tracks, cry until he's purged all his anger and hate, then throw up.
He was never strong like his father after all.
His hands are twitching more, jerking as he plucks at fabric and bites his lip, round face red with the effort to not do something stupid, and his grandmother's noticed now, he can tell.
Her gaze burns into him sadly, and his hands move more frantically against the fabric, his fingernails almost tearing into it.
He wants to stop but he just can't help it.
He can't seem to keep his hands still.
~Finis~
AN: Well, that was my first HP fic. Am I on the right track, or failing abysmally at portraying the characters correctly? Feel free to let me know.