Neville and the Beanstalk

This obscure corner of the common room was particularly suited to morbid self-recrimination. Neville knew this from experience. Telling himself he was a bloody idiot was better, more convenient here than in the bedroom he shared with the other Gryffindor boys, or in class or the Great Hall. Too public, and he felt acutely self-conscious - every gesture and word seemed clumsy, just plain wrong. Too private, and he risked tears of self-pity. Common room it was, then.

Bloody idiot, that's what he was. Couldn't do anything right. He'd lost so many points for Gryffindor. Harry, Ron and Hermione's hundred and fifty docked points? Probably as many as he lost in a few months of Potions classes. Harry was met with icy silence, but no Gryffindor ever said anything to his face. They muttered, or they whinged when they thought he was out of earshot, but nothing overt. It was expected.

Occupational hazard of being friends with Neville Longbottom.

It was his fault. His classmates had swapped an easy victory in the House Cup for his friendship. He didn't even do anything for them! He was always forgetting things, and he couldn't for the life of him make his lessons turn out they way they were meant to. He couldn't make things better when they needed him. He -

Speaking of forgetting, where was Trevor? Oh, bollocks. Not again.

He began checking down the side of his armchair, on the seat, on top of the chair. Nope. He knelt behind the chair, stuck his arm as far as he could underneath it, moved it around a bit. Suddenly, his hand brushed past a moist lump. Trevor! At the same time, he became aware of voices in the room. Furtive voices. He froze. What if...? No. Time to face up to things, Neville.

He scooped up his toad and lurched to his feet. Hermione, Harry and Ron were standing over the other side of the common room, arguing about something. It looked like Harry was holding something, but he couldn't tell what it was, and frankly he didn't want to know.

"What are you doing?"

Harry snatched his hands behind his back. "Nothing, Neville, nothing," he said.

"You're going out again." Neville couldn't believe them. Even he wasn't so stupid as to invite trouble again so soon. Well, at least not outside Potions. That was different.

Hermione jumped in, this time. The three of them made a good team. "No, no, no. No, we're not. Why don't you go to bed, Neville." It wasn't a question, but she was too edgy for it to have any force.

Harry looked away. He seemed nervous, too. Too nervous just for a confrontation with Neville "Non-Threatening" Longbottom. Something was going on. Then again, wasn't it always, with the famous Harry Potter and his sidekicks?

"You can't go out, you'll be caught again. Gryffindor will be in even more trouble," he said.

Something was going on.

A note of desperation crept into Harry's voice as he begged, "You don't understand, this is important".

He didn't care. He'd had enough. Even if he couldn't get back all of the points he'd lost, he could stop things getting any worse.

"I won't let you do it," he said, interposing himself between his friends and the portrait hole. "I'll...I'll fight you!"

"Neville, get away from that hole and don't be an idiot." Ron sounded more frustrated than anything else. This only strengthened Neville's resolve.

"Don't you call me an idiot!" he said. "I don't think you should be breaking any more rules! And you were the ones who told me to stand up to people!"

Ron's exasperation was even more marked now. He yelled, "Yes, but not to us," as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Neville, you don't know what you're doing."

He stepped forwards. Neville dropped Trevor, who immediately made a dash for freedom under a piece of furniture. He'd try to remember that.

"Go on then, try and hit me! I'm ready!"

Somehow, his fists were in front of his face in a vaguely pugilistic pose. (He hoped the others wouldn't notice how much they were shaking.)

Brown trousers time.

Harry seemed to see how futile persuasion would be: he begged Hermione to do something. Fatalism washed over Neville. He was in trouble, now. Hermione didn't mess around.

(He was even less likely to hit her, too.)

His stomach was already sinking in anticipation as she advanced on him, pulling out her wand. He thought he heard an apology over the rushing in his ears, before he felt his entire body snap into rigidity. It didn't hurt, precisely, but it wasn't at all pleasant.

In fact, it felt almost as if he'd become a tree. He couldn't move of his own accord. He teetered momentarily upright. Then terrifying, creaking acceleration, the floor rushing up to meet his face -

.

.

.

.

Hermione. Peering. He was on his back, somehow. Despite the fact that his body was completely rigid, his eyes didn't seem to be having any trouble bulging in alarm. That was interesting.

The others' lips seemed to be moving, but he didn't care what they were saying. Soon, their heads disappeared. He was like a plank, a plank that could stare at the ceiling and wonder why it'd never looked at the ceiling before. It was rather nice.

Hermione was very good at everything she did, so he had a long, long time to think before the spell wore off.

He was somewhat dazed

/shock/

/terror/

/exhilaration/

because he'd finally stood up to someone, and it had (hadn't) hurt as much as he'd always thought.

His mind was wandering, apprising the dark curlicues of the cornices. He found himself thinking about his grandmother. Would she be proud? Maybe. If she even heard about it (for he'd never tell her, willingly at least), she might huff and puff, about time, and never speak of it again. Maybe not. It was strange how empowering being completely incapable of movement could be -

- That's right, his grandmother had told him the story, once, the only story she'd ever told when she realised that they made him have nightmares for weeks. He only vaguely remembered it. Something about a boy, a rash boy, giving away his most valuable possession for something that seemed worthless, something shrouded in outlandish promises. Magic beans! Magic beans, that was it. The boy was punished for this, but the beans, incredibly, lived up to their warranty, and the boy used the enormous plant that grew from them to win glory and riches. The plant was cut down in the end, but it had served a purpose. It was vital, even. The whole story couldn't have happened without it.

Neville was vaguely cheered by all of this. Variations on this theme amused him as he noted the creeping return of feeling to his body.

Eventually, he lurched to his feet. Too late? Didn't matter. He teetered off to find McGonagall, anyway.