Disclaimer: I'm not even British. These words, at least, are mine, but the players aren't.
By: Illusioness
"So. Dumbledore told me what happened," his grandmother said neutrally, eyeing him over the tip of her nose.
Those were the first words she had spoken on the subject. The Floo home from one of the fireplaces at King's Cross Station had been mercifully short; they had arrived at the house within minutes, put away his luggage to be unpacked later, and sat down for a late afternoon tea in the kitchen at a small, chintzy table that always reminded Neville uncomfortably of Divination class, all in an tense silence that had him fearing the worst.
Neville said nothing in response, merely ducked his head and refused to meet her eyes.
"Riding thestrals halfway across the country. Sneaking into the Ministry of Magic. Dueling with Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries." He had a hard time not flinching as her voice grew louder with each sentence. "Neville, do you have any idea how many times you could have been killed?"
It was the tight, almost desperate edge to her voice that made him look up, tearing his gaze away from the absurdly hypnotic flowery tablecloth. Her lips were pinched together thinly in what he had long since come to recognize as her 'I Am Very Disappointed, Neville" look.
"I--" he started, but he wasn't sure what he was going to say. His grandmother didn't even give him the chance to try.
"Honestly, I thought you'd have some common sense, at least! Enough to know that you--"
"Enough to know what, Gran?" he interrupted, a sharp edge to his voice he hadn't expected. Neither had she, the way she was looking at him. "Enough to know that I'm a failure? That I can't do anything right? That I'd just get myself killed?" She sputtered in half-hearted protest, but he didn't pause long enough to let her form actual words.
"Well guess what, Gran? I didn't! I didn't get myself killed! I survived in a duel against Death Eaters! Nobody was sitting there, holding my hand like a kid in nappies, pointing my wand for me-- I did it all myself!" He was half out of his chair, fists planted on the table, words coming in furious succession as he shouted directly into her face.
Seeing her wide, almost frightened eyes staring up at him, he suddenly found the anger draining away, like sand out of a broken hourglass. He settled back into his chair, righted his teacup, and stared morosely down into the remaining liquid. There was silence for a moment.
"...For once in my life, I didn't fail," he whispered.
His grandmother stared at him for several long moments, shocked by his uncharacteristic display of temper. Then she straightened, visibly regaining her equilibrium. Yet rather than continuing her lecture, as he had expected, she instead sighed, and took a long, steadying gulp of her tea. The cup still rattled slightly on on the saucer as she set it down.
"I'm sorry, Neville," she said quietly, after a minute or two had passed. He looked up at her, shocked, but she didn't meet his eyes.
"It was still an incredibly foolish thing to do. A very foolish," she continued, ignoring his inarticulate noise of protest. "Very stupid... very brave... very Gryffindor thing to do." She finally looked up from her tea cup, eyes finding his as his breath caught in his throat.
"Your parents would be proud," she whispered, voice tight with tears.
And there was nothing he could say to that, so they finished their tea in silence.
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