Sweet Wrappers

Sweet Wrappers.

By Arianrhod

Neville's hands trembled as he packed his trunk; he had to hurry or he'd miss the leaving feast. But he didn't want to leave. He understood Harry's dread of holidays. His own holidays meant visiting his parents every week, staring into those blank faces, trying to talk to them because Gran told him off if he didn't.

As he placed his pajamas his hand brushed an old shoebox, the coloured picture of a child's sandal still pacing on the lid. He felt tears come as he slipped the lid off and ran his hand through all that his mother was able to give him. Rubbish.

Bright wrappers. Red. Blue. Yellow. Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. Chocolate Frogs. Sweets that made other children happy. They didn't make Neville happy; they made him cry. But he didn't cry about it here because Gran had told him not to. Although he didn't tell anyone about the shoebox either.

That first night, while the other boys were sleeping, he'd got up and sat in the window seat, staring across the moonlit grounds. His father had sat here, he'd been in Gryffindor too. Would he be proud of Neville? His mother would be, that's what mothers were for, wasn't it? To be proud of you.

The little round-faced boy had looked across at the bed where Harry Potter was curled up. He didn't know what it was like to have parents either. But then he didn't have to visit his every holiday, did he? He didn't have to see them look at him like he was a stranger. But maybe they could be friends.

Tears pricked his eyes. He'd thought he'd be able to at least tell people about his parents; they were heroes after all. He should be proud of them, and he was, in a way. But talking had been too painful. When they'd asked about his family he'd found a falsely cheerful jumble flowing out of him, all about his Gran and how Great-uncle Algie had given dropped him from a window and how pleased they'd all been when they discovered he could do magic.

All he really wanted to say was, I'm Neville Longbottom. My parents, Frank and Alice Longbottom, were tortured with the Cruciatus curse until they went mad. They're in Saint Mungo's now. I'm not as good as my father was but I try my best.

It occurred to Neville that nearly six years on he still had little else to say. Was that all he was? A boy trying to be as good as his father? Even though he knew he wasn't?

He was shaking so much by now that he dropped the box in surprise when Harry came in.

"Neville, wha-?"

Harry stopped as the sweet wrappers spilled all over the floor, swirling in eddies thanks to the breeze from a half-opened window. Neville scrambled to pick them up.

There was one missing. He recounted swiftly. There were only eighty-six; one was definitely missing.

"There's one missing."

A gentle hand settled on his shoulder. Neville turned and looked into Harry's face, there was a sad understanding in it. And in his hand was the last wrapper. Drooble's Best Blowing Gum - tastes like strawberries and cream. The one his mother had given him the day Harry and the others had seen him in the hospital. And Harry knew, and he actually understood.

"Thanks." Thank you so much, I thought I'd lost it.

"It's okay." I know how much it means to you. I know you wouldn't lose it.

"I didn't realise I had one missing." I knew exactly which one was missing.

"I wouldn't have done either." That's perfectly normal. If my mother could give me anything, I'd hold onto it too. Even if it was just a sweet wrapper.

They both knew all the things they didn't say. Neither wanted to say them because it would bring up things that they couldn't control.

But he smiled slightly at Harry to show that he'd understood and received an answering smile in return. He turned to finish his packing and was surprised and very grateful when Harry started to neatly stack his schoolbooks in one corner of the trunk. They worked in silence.

Then as Neville reached across Harry for his wand, he felt a slight dampness on his hand. He looked up. Harry was crying; a single tear had leaked from between his screwed lids and landed on Neville's hand. The sight made tears spring to his own eyes.

As Gran would have wanted him to, Neville reached for two handkerchiefs; one he pressed into Harry's hand, the other he used to wipe his own tears. Harry looked up in surprise as he felt the handkerchief, then blushed when he realised Neville had seen his tears, then smiled when he realised Neville was also crying.

They finished the trunk in quietly then made their way down to the Great Hall in a companionable silence. No-one noticed their tear-stained faces in the excitement of saying goodbyes but as they left Platform 9 3/4 that evening, Harry looked across at him once and Neville found himself remembering something he himself had said.

He's not alone. He's still got me.

Perhaps the summer would be more bearable for both of them this year.